


Convention

by Cas100



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Brutality, F/M, Forced, Gang Rape, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Multiple Penetration, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Supernatural Convention, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cas100/pseuds/Cas100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a fan girl from the UK travels across the Atlantic on her own to attend her very first Supernatural fan convention in New Jersey, she gets a helluva lot more than she bargained for.  PLEASE comment, it's my first fic, and I'm very nervous!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jensen

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers for rape, very graphic gang rape in an alley, as well as male rape. Please don't read if it's going to be a trigger for you. Very dark in some parts, very sweet in other parts. Tender Jensen. All turns out fab in the end :-)

“It’s been one loooonnnng day”, thought Jensen wearily, waving and bidding the crew of his TV show’s latest fan convention goodnight.  He exited the building through the glass front door, which swung shut behind him with a dull thud. He paused on the sidewalk, feeling the late evening cool air blow mildly around him.  Tugging the collar of his khaki jacket up round his ears - a gesture which was pure _Dean_ \- to fend off wind earache, he set off down the street toward his rental car parked a half mile away in a public parking lot.  He hadn’t wanted to park behind the hotel as he feared he mightn’t be able to get out - that car park was heaving!  But now feeling the chill of the night air, he started to wish he had.  “Son. Of. A. Biiiiiitch, it is COLD”, he shuddered, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

He loved doing the convention tours, they were lots of fun and it was always great to hang out with cast members, past and present, who he considered his friends.  It was also great to see just how popular the show had become – it was now in its 10th season!  However, just sometimes, the adoring fans could be hard work and occasionally you come across the odd weirdo who wants to lick your face or something, _they_ had to be ejected by security.  The convention days were long, starting early and going on well into the late evening, and you were on the go the whole time, requiring almost constant focus and attention; so much as he enjoyed them they were also exhausting.  _Ah don’t get me wrong_ , he thought, he loved the fans but sometimes they just wore him down.  He loved acting but had never really wished to become famous – _occupational hazard_ , he thought wryly – but for the most part, the good points outweighed the bad.  Mostly.  Funny thing was, he didn’t actually even consider himself that big of a deal, just some dumb actor schmuck.  But he’d worked on the show on almost exclusively for the last nine plus years, and it’d been a massive hit; the fans just couldn’t get enough of him and his co-star Jared.  But really, he was just a shy ranch guy from Texas.  Not for the first time he wished he was better at the whole ‘being a star’ thing; _more like Jared_ , he thought who took everything in his stride. 

He hurried along to reach his car, a compact non-descript ride that no fan would think he – and certainly not his character – would be seen dead in, never mind drive!  _Such vehicles had their purpose_ , he chuckled silently to himself, they kept away both the hysterical fan girls – and boys for that matter – as well as the unwanted media attention, unless of course he was papped which did happen from time to time.  _Urrggh_ , he thought in irritation thinking of the times he’d been hounded.  He tried to live a private life outside of the media spotlight and didn’t attend many celebrity parties and functions, unlike some actors and actresses who went to the opening of an envelope.

The show’s producers and bodyguards almost went into meltdown when he’d insisted on driving himself this time, but he steadfastly refused to have another chauffeur to drive him about like he was some kind of invalid.  He hated having to explain himself, tie himself down, and wanted – needed – the independence.  He was thankful the convention was not Downtown this time, allowing him to walk down the street relatively unnoticed and not in the full glare of the city where he’d almost definitely get recognised.  He hated the city.  Not just _this_ city, any city.  A ranch in the country with horses and trees and a fucking _normal_ life was more his bag, particularly ever since _the incident_ (as he mentally referred to it).  Taking in the distant sounds of the late evening city, he felt relaxed in the relative quiet of suburbia, several cars passing by as he walked.

He could smell the inviting aroma of food wafting in the cool breeze, and realised he was hungry; he hadn’t eaten since he grabbed a couple of sandwiches at lunchtime between photo ops and panels.  Heading to a nearby diner and finding it infuriatingly shut up for the night, he stopped dead hearing a suspicious noise.  He glanced about but there was hardly anyone around, save for the two large meatheads running in the distance. 

Peering suspiciously into the shadowy alleyway next to the diner, he wondered what had attracted his attention.  He scanned the alley’s dark shadowy entrance, not able to see much of anything but not able to shake the feeling that something was….off.  “What the hell…?” he muttered, the short hair at the nape of his neck prickling uncomfortably.  He willed himself forward towards the alley, winkling his nose against the vague but nonetheless distinctive smell of piss, and scanned the area.  Tilting his head and narrowing his eyes as though it would help to give him freaking super-hearing, he listened.

Beginning to wonder whether his spooky TV show was making him paranoid to the point of fucking IMAGINING things now, he heard a noise again.  _There_ , he thought, directing his attention towards the dark end of the alley, he was hearing what appeared to be some kinda scuffle and a thump followed by….was that _a scream_?  Muffled, but a scream nonetheless.  The grim realisation of what was probably occurring just out of sight hit him.  _Oh, not on my watch_ , he thought grimly, he **had** to check it out knowing he couldn’t live with himself if… he quickly muted that thought.  He quickly scanned the street again seeing if anyone else was around to help, but there was not a soul in sight, the two men he’d seen earlier long gone.

“Just me then”, he muttered, twisting his mouth and biting his bottom lip distractedly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.  His spidey senses were tingling.  Not really wanting to know what might be there but equally _needing_ to know, he crept into the gloom of the alley. 

Drawing on the training he’d had to attend, certainly in the early days of the show, in order to make his tough guy hunter persona authentic, he tiptoed down the grimy backstreet the best he could, pulling out his cell phone to light the way, pausing occasionally to listen.  The disturbing noises were getting louder.  Reaching a couple of overfilled garbage bins about halfway down, he paused, holding his breath.  The dumpsters, as it turned out, were absorbing much of the rather worrying sounds he could now hear quite clearly.  Dreading what he was going to find, he stepped cautiously around the bin.  And stopped dead.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Attack, from Jensen's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen discovers a raped and traumatised girl in the alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for rape, don't read if it's going to be a problem for you

#  CHAPTER TWO – THE ATTACK FROM JENSEN’S POV

“Jeeez _-USS._ FUCK!” Jensen exclaimed in revulsion, taking an involuntary stumbling step backwards. 

The large man barely paused his rhythm, the woman pinned face down beneath him sobbing.  And begging (or was it _praying_ , he couldn’t tell) for her abuser to STOP, that she couldn’t take any more.  Jensen gaped at the sight, completely rooted to the spot.  The rapist was clearly in the zone, eyes half-closed as he bent over his prize, his personal fuck toy, grunting loudly with each of his thrusts.  His right hand was cruelly tangled into her tousled hair holding her head face down, his left hand gripping her hip to the hard edge of the rectangular trashcan as he relentlessly fucked into her, her body jolting upward with each pound.  In spite of the lack of light, Jensen could already see fingerprint-shaped bruises developing where he grasped her hip.  He heard her pleading, muttering, sobbing.

Judging by the punishing pace he set, the man was hungrily chasing his orgasm, he was close.  As if on cue, the girl suddenly howled as the thrusts became erratic but still vicious.  And one, two, three later, he erupted her with a shout and a groan, his teeth locking onto her neck as he came, hard.  _Bingo!_ thought Jensen, briefly closing his eyes.  It must have been ten seconds since he’d rounded the dumpster, and all he’d done is stand there, gawping.

“Such a good fuck toy”, the man said, his breathing ragged.  Jensen opened his eyes and saw that the man had had collapsed bodily onto the girl, his energy spent.  He was an enormous hulk of a man and the girl was now struggling to take a breath as he lay on top of her.

Abruptly standing upright and swiftly pulling out of her, the girl whimpered as he tucked himself away, all the while grinning, as I stand there motionless, in disbelief.  The girl slid down the trashcan and sank to the ground bonelessly with a soft thump, crumpling on the dirty floor.  She was clearly in a bad way judging by her obvious marks and injuries – those were the ones he _could_ see.  _Not to mention the freaking blood_.  He couldn’t see her face yet, obscured by a mop of brown curls as she curled up on her side, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Heyyyy buddy!” the man drawled conversationally in a southern accent, walking towards me, winking and intimating the broken girl on the floor.  “Wanna go, her ass is reeeaaal tight y’know”  There’s a small sob from ground level.  “Available for _one night only!”_   He guffaws at his own joke, the smell of alcohol rank on his breath which makes me feel vaguely nauseous.  I sway on my feet.  “Hardly a freakin’ virgin though, both o’ my bros had a go before me, the fuckers.  Curse-a bein’ t’youngest I guess - hadta wait mi freakin’ turn!  Mind you, I ended up wi’ best bi’ of ass I ever ‘ad”.  His yellow teeth gleam against the blackness of his skin as he continues to smirk.  “Hey”, eyes widening in half-recognition, leering toward me, “hey don’t I know you?”

Rage and revulsion flares through my brain, finally spurring me into action.  I can take no more of this shit.  In spite of the HUGENESS of this guy, I feel myself lunge forward and grab him by his lapels, throwing him against the side of the large dumpster.  “What the FUCK did you do, you sonovabitch?”  My right fist makes contact with his stubbled chin and pain radiates through my knuckles.  _Fuck that hurt_ , I think, checking out my knuckles seeing the split skin there.  Looking up, I grin in satisfaction at the man staggering slightly before me but he seems to recover quickly, snapping his head up.  I brace myself, ready for his counter attack but he merely snickers and takes off down the alley into the street.  “You _fucking_ coward!” I holler after him in frustration. 

I turn and hurry over to the traumatised girl sobbing quietly on the dirty floor who’s now in a protective foetal position, curled up onto her side.  It’s clear she’s hurt real bad, I can see her better now that the huge frame of the frigging _hulk_ isn’t obscuring my view.  She’s almost totally naked, save for her checkered shirt which has been ripped open so her white bra is visible, looking uncomfortable pushed up and over her bare breasts.  I avert my eyes, whilst trying to ignore the suspicious milky substance mixing with the more obvious red smeared around and leaking onto her bare thighs.  _Jesus!_ I opt to look for her missing clothes so I can cover her up.  Her jeans and what must be her bloodied jacket are on the floor but, glancing back to the distressed girl, I figure that actually persuading her to put on her old clothing is perhaps not the best idea aside from the fact that they’ll scratch and chafe like a bitch on her wounds.  _Ripped panties clearly aren’t gonna offer much warmth or protection either,_ I think, spying a white rag in the corner and recognising them for what they are.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply – once, twice - I slowly drag my hand down over my face from my forehead over my eyes to the rough five o’clock shadow growing on my chin.  I selfishly wish I wasn’t here right now, that I hadn’t come across this…fucked up situation.  _I could just leave_ , I think, fighting off the urge to run, _and pretend I was never here._   But my attention is drawn as I hear her whimper softly, bringing me to my senses; I know I can’t leave.  Eyeing her with concern, I see her shaking and know it’s not due merely to the coldness of the floor.  She’s going into shock.

Quickly shrugging off my jacket I ask, more gruffly than I’d intended, “Hey, you okay?” knowing what a stupid fucking question it was, _course_ _she’s not okay you idiot_.  There’s no reaction that she’s even heard the question, I’m not even sure she knows I’m here.  _Fuck!_   Kneeling beside her, I manage to tuck my jacket around her abdomen to cover the little dignity she has left, but she flinches violently and bats my hands away when I reach over to close her shirt – not that there’s many buttons left to fasten, her top clearly having been hastily ripped open.  I drop my hands abruptly, feeling like an insensitive asshole. 

I pause uncertainly, taking in her wretched appearance.  She looks just awful, a myriad of angry bruises, grazes and other bloody wounds decorating her body.  Unsurprisingly and remembering the hand cruelly twisted in it, her hair looks as if she’s been dragged through a bush, with curling strands  splattered and stuck to her tearstained face.  I realise with a jolt she’s looking right at me now with a frightened expression.  In spite of her injuries, I can see she’s pretty in a sort of chubby, mousey, girl-next-door way.  She’s roughly around my own age, maybe a little older.  _Vaguely familiar_ I frown, trying to remember.  I look at her, smiling in what I hope is a reassuring, placating way.

She opens her mouth to speak, “I-I…”  Though her voice is low and hoarse, it cuts through the quietness of the alley.  “PLEASE don’t.  I-I-I …” she rasps.  Her throat sounds raw, _most likely from screaming and being half-strangled,_ I think.  Even in the twilight of the alley courtesy of the nearby shop window lights, I can see fingerprint shaped bruises developing round her long, swan-like neck.  I creep a little closer so I can hear her better, her voice is barely a rasping whisper.  She shoots me a terrified look and shies away like a frightened animal.

“NO!  D-d-don’t touch me, I just, I-I…I c-can’t   T-take.  Any more”.  She drops her gaze and drags herself painfully into the shadows behind the dumpsters.  I watch her in slight confusion as she comes to a sudden halt when her back hits the brick wall.  With a shock, I realise _she’s afraid of me, she’s trying get away from me!_ Though I notice she’s still clutching tightly to the – my - jacket still covering her lower body.  I shiver involuntarily, feeling the cold and am thankful for the t-shirt and flannel I’m wearing.  She must be absolutely freezing.

 _And she thinks I’m a threat_.  I haven’t really moved since I knelt down beside her, and I’m now becoming increasingly uncomfortable; my left knee, the one kneeling on the unforgiving floor, is numb.  I cautiously stand, keeping my movements slow and deliberate.   _She really thinks I’M going to ra--_  er, _HURT_ _her_.  I close my eyes in revulsion as another wave of nausea washes over me.  Clearing my throat I say, “Hey”, a little louder than the last and in what I hope is a more calming voice.  She’s practically hugging the wall now, eyes closed and arms wrapped around herself, rocking slightly, seemingly now oblivious to my presence.  There’s no response.  I move closer to her shadowed, terrified form, all the while holding my hands up in front of me in what I hope is a placating pose.  I will her her to understand: _I’m not here to hurt you._

“Hey”.  I’m beginning to repeat myself now and roll my eyes in irritation.  I really must work on my trauma repertoire.  She won’t meet my eyes, seemingly favouring my day old, stubble-adorned chin.  Glancing down a moment with a half-smile tracing across my lips, knowing she won’t understand the reference but saying it anyway, I murmur “necessity of the job”.  Still nothing.  “Hey” ( _dammit!_ ), I try to reassure her, “It’s over. I’m gonna take care o’ you”.  The irony isn’t lost on me, nothing will ever be okay for her ever again.  “Look at me”, I say more forcefully than I intended and I see her recoil, “I’m not gonna hurt you!  Will you _look_ at me”, I sigh in exasperation, inching closer.  She registers my voice again and her fingers tighten over the jacket covering her; _my_ jacket.  I daren’t get _too_ close.  I try to summon more – _any_ – words of comfort, _the fucking right words would be good_.  Like there are any in this situation.  I should know.

Achingly long seconds later, I’m somewhat relieved to see she senses she’s sorta safe, my words and wary inaction hopefully reassuring her that I won’t hurt her.  She begins to get herself together.  _I know that process,_ I think dourly, pushing away the memories that are threatening to come.  She uncurls herself from her corner, blinking slowly but still not meeting my eyes.  I know she knows I’m there.  Using the dumpster as a brace, she gingerly props herself up, wincing slightly.  I want to help but don’t want to scare her further; I notice my hands are still splayed in front of me.  She looks down at herself expressionlessly. 

Finally registering her gaping shirt, she raises a hand to pull it shut before realising there aren’t actually many buttons left to fasten save for the one I attempted to do up earlier, so she simply clasps the front edges together, concealing her bare breasts and bra.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened to missing buttons and I glance around, as if accusing the alley of being the culprit.  Clutching her shirt closed in her fist, I notice her grazed, bloodied fingertips and ragged nails for the first time.  _Ouch!_

She sighs, grimacing slightly, and reaches up with her other hand to push unruly curls away from her stricken face, inadvertently touching the nasty bruising cut developing on her cheekbone.  Pain is written all over her pretty face and my heart goes out to her; she looks dreadful.  Finally finding my voice, I lean forward a little.  “Please.  Let me help you”, I whisper and her eyes finally focus on mine, widening in recognition.  Or in alarm.  Or abject horror.

“Nooooo” she squeaks. “N-n-no no no no”. And she then falls forward into a dead faint.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denny begins to remember her attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape triggers, don't read if this upsets you

#  CHAPTER THREE – THE HOSPITAL

TWO DAYS LATER.

“Mmmmnfffnggg”, I think sluggishly, vaguely wondering why someone doesn’t switch offthat damned beeping.  As I slowly begin to surface from the comforting dark void of unconsciousness, the acrid odour of disinfectant and bleach drifts its way through my wakening senses.  My eyes fly open, which I regret almost immediately, frowning at the bright morning light streaming through the blinds at the window.

I’m lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV line with an ominous looking machine bleeping steadily away by my side.   Blinking a few times in an attempt to clear the grogginess I feel, I glance down, noticing several gauze dressings covering my arms and hands, and white bandages wrapped around both wrists beneath the gown I’m wearing.  I stretch, painfully.  _What the hell…?_

Taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, I quickly sit up, instantly wishing I hadn’t done so when my _entire_ body seems to object.  Cursing, I drop back to the soft comfort of my bed pillow.  I have no memory of how I got here, nor the circumstances that _led_ to my being here.  Feeling panic rising (and I’d been sooo comfortable in my previous catatonic state), I try to calm myself by taking a few deep, cleansing breaths but _FUCK, does it hurt to breathe!_   I glance around again, absently raising my hand to scratch my aching cheek.  I freeze, feeling another dressing.  _What…?_ The annoying beeping coming from the machine begins to increase in pitch and frequency as my heart rate climbs and full on anxiety takes hold.  I groan in irritation at the noise and realise at once that my voice is _hoarse_!  The room door suddenly bangs opens and a kindly, matronly-looking nurse named Sarah (if the name tag is anything to go by) rushes in.  “There, there dear, you’re awake!  How are you feeling, like you’ve been hit by a train, I’ll bet?”  The expression on her face is all compassion and understanding

She pushes a button on that infernal machine and the bleeping stops.  By now I’m starting to hyperventilate, my ribs searing in pain with my panicked breaths.  _How odd_ , I think vaguely.  The nurse hovers, shushing and reassuring me gently, managing to persuade me to lie back against the softness of the pillows.  I obey, feeling slightly calmer and breathing a little easier with her soothing presence.  I gaze questioningly at her, brow furrowed in confusion but she says nothing, busying herself instead with the task at hand: which seems to be calming me down.  Unfortunately, a doctor chooses that exact moment to bang into the room and my eyes fly to the open doorway, taking in HIS appearance.  It’s then that I lose it completely, bounding halfway out of bed in spite of my protesting, aching body and crudely rip the IV out of my arm.  I feel a sharp sting and my legs crumple beneath me then everything fades to black.

 

* * * * *

 

When I come to later that day, I see the nurse from earlier – _Sarah was it?_ – with her back to me, probably checking on my ‘vitals’ or whatever the hell it is that nurses do whilst their patients are unconscious.  Recollecting my somewhat strange behaviour from earlier that morning, I groan weakly feeling rather embarrassed, alerting her of my wakefulness.  She turns around.  “Welcome back honey” she beams.  I blink back at her apprehensively, eyeing her name tag: “SARAH”, it reads and I smile inwardly.  Recalling the pain in my ribs from my sudden outburst earlier, I inhale then exhale slowly.  “What the fuck is going on?” I rasp, I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise at the hoarseness.

She pretends not to hear me, and instead busies herself wheeling some scary looking equipment over to my bed from the corner of the room.  I realise with relief that it’s a just blood pressure machine.  _At least it’s not that bloody heart rate monitor, I don’t think I could take more of the incessant bleeping._   She smiles down at me reassuringly, indicating the cuff in her hands.  I eye it suspiciously before realising what it is and nodding, and she gently wraps it around my arm - _not_ the arm I’d ripped the IV out of earlier I note gratefully, seeing a band-aid stuck over the site of my newest wound, dried blood staining the whiteness slightly.  I realise spidery-looking black lines beneath the dressing must be stitches holding my self-inflicted injury together. 

My attention is redirected away from the plaster, as Sarah presses down slightly on my other arm to seal the Velcro of the cuff.  Clipping a different end of the machine to my index finger - _I wonder what that’s for?_ I think idly - she pushes a button and the cuff begins to self-inflate.  I feel my pulse beating in my arm.  _Must be alive then_ , I think sardonically.  The cuff deflates and looking satisfied, Sarah removes it, tucking it onto the machine’s mesh tray.  “Blood pressure normal, that what we like to see!”  She says cheerily, tangling the cables together and placing them in the tray before pushing the machine back to its original position, out of sight.

“You’ve been out for nearly three hours now!” she says brightly, leaning over and pouring a glass of iced water from the jug on my tray table.  She hands me the glass, “you must be thirsty—drink—it will help your throat”, she orders.  I stare at the glass.  Pulling the plastic visitor chair over to my bedside and sitting down, she takes in my questioning look.  “We had to sedate you”, she shrugs simply.  More for something to do than anything else, I gulp down some water and immediately regret it as my ragged throat protests against the invading liquid.  I grimace, trying not to choke, knowing how my ribs will feel if I do.  I plonk the glass back down on the tray table and look at her, noticing her proximity.  Although I knew I instantly liked Sarah, she’s a little close to me and I feel strangely uncomfortable.  She notices me wrestle with some kind of hidden emotion as it flashes across my face but she says nothing, watching me warily.  She clears her throat and almost as if she can read my mind, retreats from the bed slightly.  “Hon”, she says firmly, sympathy deep in her eyes, “it’s okay now, _you’re_ okay now.  You’re gonna be just fine”.  I stare at her a moment longer feeling increasingly confused before pressing my eyes closed.  I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck which reversed over me and drove over me again.  I sag against the pillows, falling into a dreamless sleep, the sedation hangover making me groggy and tired.

 

* * * * *

 

“There’s some amnesia - the doctors are saying - most likely due to your mild concussion, but memories should begin to return soon”, Sarah informs me a little later the next day when I ask her again, more politely this time, what’s going on.  She’s changing some of my dressings and her eyes flicker to the one covering the bump on my forehead.  “S’only temporary or so I’m told.  Sooo!  Let’s try something.  Start small as they say”.  I say nothing but feel anxiety flutter in my belly as I wonder what she means.  She pauses and I mutely question her look, one eyebrow raised, feeling apprehensive

“Do you know your name?”  I exhale in relief.  I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath.  My ribs twinge. 

I nod in assertion, “Yeah, it’s Denny—er--Deneice”, I manage, noticing my hoarse voice again, “they ah, they call me Denny”.

“OK”, she smiles, thrilled.  “Denny it is”.  A look of uncertainty momentarily flashes across her features and I feel unease wash over me.  Taking a deep breath, she asks the question I kinda knew was coming but don’t know how to answer. 

“Do you remember what happened to you?” 

I stare at her, trying to make sense of my emerging memories but not coming up with all that much, at least none that made a whole lot of sense.  I just have this feeling of overall fogginess, like trying to watch the TV through bubble wrap.  I’m guessing that there’s something fairly traumatic lodged back there that my consciousness either can’t or doesn’t want to remember.  _Or maybe it’s just the drugs making me woozy_ , I think idly.  My vacant look clearly tells Sarah all she needs to know, and she doesn’t push any further.  Getting to her feet and nervously straightening out the creases in her apron, she changes the subject. 

“You must be hungry dear, are you hungry?”  As Sarah bustles around the room again not waiting for a reply, it’s clear we’re going to ignorethe last minute and a half.  I focus on her latest question.

 _Am I hungry?_ I think.  Without waiting for confirmation either way, she continues on, “We’ll get some food in you and you can relax, then everything might become a bit clearer, eh Denny?”  I nod, a tad apprehensively.  I can’t shake the fogginess or tightness in my chest, as I wonder what _did_ happen to me.  Given the obviousness of my injuries, I sorta know what must’ve occurred but I have no real memory of it.  At least not _yet_ anyway.  _Maybe that’s a blessing?_

Sarah hesitates at the door of my room, uncertainty crossing her face once more.   _What now?_ I think in slight irritation, feeling worn out.  “I’m afraid I must tell you, though you mustn’t worry just now dear.  There’s a detective outside waiting to talk to you, about the rap--um, the attack…your…er… to get a statement.  Why they can’t just wait a few days, I don’t know”, she mutters, half to herself.  “Refuses to go away he does, been here ever since he heard you’d woken up.  Fearing she’d said too much already, she added, “I’ll be right back”, and flees the room.

I lie there feeling, well, a bit perplexed to be honest.  _Detective?  A frigging STATEMENT?_   I scour my mind again for something tangible but nothing more is forthcoming except for that persistent feeling of vagueness, like a memory is just out of reach.  _Clearly something awful happened to me_.  I tense, gingerly, flexing various parts of my body, realising not for the first time that I really am quite sore and in some of the most _worrying_ places.  I shudder uncertainly. 

Absently, I finger the tender cut I can feel just beneath the gauze on my left cheekbone and am momentarily distracted by the flash of white on my wrist.  I focus on the bandage there.  I glance down at my other wrist; both are wrapped in matching bandages.  With an index finger, I nudge one of the bandages aside and see a mismatch of bruising red marks beneath.  Wrinkling my forehead and sighing in frustration, I close my eyes, just for a second.  Like a dam has burst, a rush of frankly _disturbing_ images flood my mind and my eyes shoot open in horror; reality has finally hit me like a fucking sledgehammer.

 _No that can’t be right,_ I think in terrified confusion, my breathing hitching as my brain grapples to cope with the emerging memories.  Random faces swirl amongst the myriad of conflicting emotions, there are so many of them!  I’m thankful that the heart machine is still switched off. 

I wrap my arms tenderly around my ribs in an attempt to sooth the perpetual ache there and start to rock slightly, a comforting habit I developed as a child when upset over something and my mother wasn’t around, something I never grew out.   I try to focus on the influx of alarming visions.  I can’t piece them together properly, _nothing is making fucking SENSE_ _to me!_  I groan aloud in frustration and feel my eyes fill with tears as I try to make sense of what’s happening and place my emerging memories in some sort of ( _okay, maybe chaotic_ ) order.  A single tear overflows and snakes its way down my cheek, soaking the dressing there and stinging the cut. 

 _This is what she meant when she said the detective wanted to talk to me_ , I think, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes now, furiously wiping away their dampness.  I visibly blanch at the thought of actually having say it _out loud_ , to actually talk about what happened to me.  I remember everything now, in all its vivid _fucking_ technicolor.  Bile rising, I lurch and grab the disposable cardboard receptacle thingie from my table tray and retch noisily into it.  Having not regained my appetite since regaining consciousness, I’ve not eaten much so there’s not a whole lot to bring back up.  Dumping the practically empty container back on the tray table and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I slump back onto the bed.  I’m absolutely raw, wrung out to dry, _and then some_ , and I don’t mean just physically.  I’m exhausted in more ways than I can register.  I can’t believe I’d spent a ton of money coming to the States in order to attend a TV show fan convention, and _this_ happens?  FUCK!

I’m still trying to get to grips with the whole glorious realisation of what happened when the door re-opens and Sarah comes bustling back in, food tray in hand.  I immediately tense and involuntarily pull on my stitches, causing me to gasp softly.  In my grief, I’d momentarily forgotten about her and the promise of food, even where I was.  She bustles forward with the tray, plonking it on my table and tugging it towards me on its castors.  “Smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, _and_ toast - wholemeal obviously”, she announces, removing the silver platter cover with a “ta-dahhhhh” kind of gesture to reveal a healthy pile of food.  She continues in her fake theatrics, “with pineapple juice, a banana _and_ a strawberry yogurt, non-fat!”  She grins at me but glances down at the tray table for a moment, noticing the cardboard bowl there that’s clearly been _used_.  Now noticing in my stricken faceand pale features, she stops dead in her tracks.  Not certain I’m ready for her to know yet, I say nothing, biting back a whimper. 

“Denny, are you… o--oh!” her eyes widen as she comprehends.  “Are you starting to remember, dear?” she whispers.  I nod, closing my eyes.   _I will not cry_ , I think.  I feel her cool hand on my bare arm and instinctively flinch.  _Jesus_ , I think in exasperation, _she’s a fucking nurse, goddammit_.  She pretends not to notice.  “‘Course you’re not ok sweetheart”, she says sadly half to herself, “what a daft question, let me call the Doctor.  Switching into efficiency mode but clearly not wanting to leave me alone again, she presses a red button marked “Assist” on the wall above my head.  In an instant someone appears at my door.  I jump at the knock as Sarah whips up the bowl with its foul-smelling contents and hurries to the door.  She bodily blocks the open crack, not permitting entry to the visitor.  After a hushed conversation, she returns without the bowl.

Shoving my table with its untouched tray of food out of the way, she announces “blood pressure check!” with false brightness, wheeling the familiar equipment over. I have a feeling she’s distracting my attention.  Unsurprisingly, my blood pressure is sky high!  She frowns at the monitor before removing the cuff and shoving the machine into its home in the corner.  Busying herself around the foot of my bed, she tucks in loose bits of sheet here and there, straightening the state-issued crocheted blanket covering me.  It’s knitted in baby pink, with “ICU” scrawled in faded black felt-pen along the hemline.  It’s clearly been washed a million times, it’s so threadbare and faded.  _They really need a new design,_ I think absentmindedly; it’s an ugly blanket. 

“Just breathe, you’ll be ok in a minute”, she says, glancing nervously back to the door. 

 _I will not cry I will not cry._ I will myself to calm down but despite my mantra, traitorous tears leak out of my eyes.  I nod sadly and close my eyes to hide the shame I feel.  The door bangs open, making me jump, my eyes flying open in alarm.  “It’s just the Doctor, dear” Sarah reassures protectively.  I look up and it isn’t lost on me that this Doctor is _female_.  I glance up at Sarah appreciatively, I know this is down to her, given what happened the last time.  She smiles and absently pats my arm but in spite of my gratitude towards her, I flinch.  I sigh in frustration.    

As Sarah talks in hushed tones to my new visitor, I notice the Doctor glancing over to me, offering a sympathetic smile.  I close my eyes in irritation and shame, before a feeling of serenity takes over my body.  Opening my eyes once more, I notice the Doctor now at my bedside injecting into my freshly fitted IV line.  I’m grateful for the respite.  I no longer have to think.  Or remember.  “Thank you”, I croak.  Before slumping into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

It’s the next day before I wake.  I feel mightily groggy, my head banging like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson but I feel strangely calm.  I regard the new IV line in my arm suspiciously.  Pressing the button attached to my bedframe by a cable from the wall, the bed raises me slowly into an upright sitting position.  I contemplate the adjacent red button marked “Assist”.  Whilst I’m wondering whether to press it, as if on cue Sarah breezes in, beaming at me like I’m her favourite patient in the world.  “How are you feeling Denny?”  Not waiting for a response, “here”.  She presses two white capsules into my palm, handing me a glass of water, “take these, they’ll help with the headache”.  I swallow them gratefully, hating how she seems to know what’s going on with me.  She introduces my morning food tray, swinging the table over my bed and pushing it toward me.  Opening the small milk carton, she pours it over my cereal.  “Eat”, she instructs, “you didn’t eat anything yesterday and you need your strength”.  Not wanting to examine _that_ idea too closely I obey, grasping the proffered spoon.  I poke at the contents of the bowl disinterestedly.

I don’t feel particularly hungry but I know I should eat.  Partly to pacify Sarah, I take a couple of mouthfuls of soggy cornflakes and chew.  It feels like polystyrene in my mouth.  Swallowing the lump quickly, I steal a peek at Sarah and see her _pretending_ not to watch my progress as she tidies my already spotless room.  I feel faintly amused at her antics.  Finally putting my spoon down, I shake my head.  “I’m sorry, I’m just not that hungry”.  She sighs exasperatedly but holds her tongue. 

Wheeling the machine over again and pushing my table aside, she reattaches the cuff to my non-IV’d arm.  My blood pressure is surprisingly normal.  “Get some rest, dear” she says, smiling gently at me, understanding heavy in her eyes.  She pauses and removes the apple from the food tray, placing it onto my table.  “For later” she says with a wink and exits the room, taking my unwanted cereal with her.  I press my body into the soft pillows and close my eyes, hating her pity but knowing she means well.

Almost immediately, there’s a sharp tat-tat-tat on the frosted glass of my door and that damn detective sticks his head round the door, startling me.  Dammit, I’d forgotten about him, I think Sarah had too, probably distracted by recent events.  “Miss.  Do you have a minute, ah, I need to ask you some questions”.  Startled, I say nothing and he takes this as an ascent, striding purposefully into the room.  I try hard not to react, focussing on the extended FBI badge he’s waving under my nose.  “Oh!” I exclaim, looking from his ID to his face as something flickers at the back of my mind. 

Detective Henriksen is a tall, muscular black man. 

I can’t help it.  In spite of the lingering effects of the calming sedative, I feel panic surfacing.  All I can think is that there is a strange man – that is, a strange _black_ man - in my room, right next to me, and inexplicably, I can’t bear his presence.  I feel my chest contract suddenly and I can’t breathe.  I gasp for breath, feeling my heart pounding in my head.  He’s too close, I can’t get away and I’m completely helpless.  Not enjoying this feelings of terror – particularly whilst tethered for a second time to this _fucking_ IV-line - I struggle against the tight sheets of my bed, tucked in by Sarah earlier.  The detective looks concerned and bends apprehensively towards me.  I finally lose it, breaking free of the constraints of the covers and scoot wildly up the bed in an attempt to get away from him, my ribs and stitches objecting massively.  But I don’t care, I have to get away.  I’m stabbing frantically at the “Assist” button and trying not to hyperventilate when several people rush into the room.

“What the….how the HELL did _you_ get in here?” a female barks angrily, directing her shouts at the unwelcome detective.  “Get him out.  NOW!”  I notice it’s the female Doctor from the previous day doing the yelling.  A guilty-looking Detective Henriksen is swiftly manhandled out of the room, protesting, “It’s just a few questions, I had no idea she would freak out like that, I’m sorry!”  Hearing this, I think to myself, _Me, freak out_?  Jesus, and not that I’d admit it but I’m fucking terrified!  I dimly watch the female Doctor as she slams the door to my room shut in annoyance before closing the distance between herself and my bed.  I feel her gentle hands on mine as she removes the call button from my grasp; I hadn’t realised but I’m still stabbing weakly at it. 

I’m curled into a tight shaking ball at the head of the bed.  I close my eyes as I hear Sarah’s soft voice.  “Denny honey, he’s gone, it’s okay.  _Look_ at me”, she grasps my chin gently and twists my face to hers.  My eyes are still closed, screwed shut in the midst of the nightmares playing out behind them.  “DENNY!” she yells.  I stop floundering on the bed, eyes flying open at her outburst.  I scowl at her before feeling my body sag.  Then I burst into tears, realising how foolish I’ve been.  “I’m so sorry”, I say, “I just wasn’t prepared…  I-I-I dunno what the _fuck_ happened!”  Ignoring my profanity, she sits on the plastic chair next to my bed, throwing a dismissive look to the Doctor who’s hovering close by.  Shushing me, she says, “He isn’t supposed to come in here like that.  All unannounced like”, she clarifies.  I hear the door to my room quietly open and shut, and we’re left alone.  Breathing deep, I feel myself slowly calm down.  Unfolding from my ball, I resettle myself under the comforting protection of my bed covers once more.  There’s silence between us whilst I compose myself.

Sarah waits patiently before taking a breath, “We think it might be good for you to talk to a counsellor before Detective Henriksen tries to interview you again.  They’ll be able to help you work through it, perhaps learn some coping strategies”.  She eyes me carefully.  “If I’m right, you’ve already started to remember what happened to you?”  She looks at me questioningly and I can’t help but break her stare, looking down at my hands.  I nod sadly, silently. “Your injuries are consistent with violent assault, probably--“, she takes a beat, “--rape, or other, um, sexual attack”, she finishes carefully.  I abruptly meet her gaze and find her looking a bit sick, sympathy is dripping off her in waves.  “We, ah, performed a rape kit on you when you were brought into the ER - you were unconscious at that point so you won’t remember it - it’s standard procedure in a suspected sexual attack.”  She pauses, looking stricken.  “I’m so sorry that that happened to you, I don’t know what’s wrong with some people.”  I stare at her, concern clear in her eyes.  _That’s the fucking UNDERSTATEMENT of the year_ , I think.  I shake my head, feeling wetness drip down my cheek.


	4. Chapter 4 - Avoiding the Media

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenses muses his unfair fate in jail and remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape triggers.

#  CHAPTER FOUR – AVOIDING THE MEDIA

 _How can they think it was me?_  

Her attack is all over the media: television, the papers, radio, _Hollywood_ , the whole freaking WORLD is talking about it, or at least that’s what it feels like.  My paranoia and imagination is running riot - TV isn’t exactly a freely available commodity in jail, so my intel is gleaned from my arresting detective, a self-righteous asshole who clearly didn’t believe a word I’d told him.  According to him, the media is RIFE with the story of a 30-something year old British woman over here on holiday, who was brutally gang-rapedin a local alley three days ago.  The best bit?  One of the alleged ‘perpetrators’, the star of a popular TV show, is currently being held for questioning by the New Jersey State Police.  Yep, and that would be me.  I’m officially being held by the police for my part in a vicious rape I’d had nothing to do with.  As if I would, as if I _could_!  Wrong place, wrong person, wrong time.  Story of my life.

I pace impatiently around the floor of my small cell, mentally willing my lawyer to appear, like I can make him arrive by sheer mental power.  After my arrest and knowing he’d know exactly what to do, I’d placed my one phone call to Jared - my co-star on the show – and thankfully both he and the show were resolutely standing by me, determinedly denying all allegations, and had arranged for a top-notch lawyer for me who I assumed was on his way.  _Taking his fucking time_ , I think in irritation, _WHERE the hell IS he?_   I have spoken to no one else, God only knows what Danni is going to make of THIS.  I’ve heard nothing at all from my family which, actually, isn’t surprising seeing as I’m not allowed visitors or phone calls other than from the legals.  Henriksen, the arresting ASSHOLE detective, clearly thinks I’m guilty and has done since they found me on the floor of that rancid alleyway, cradling an injured, unconscious woman.  Didn’t help that I had her blood on my hands and clothes.  Didn’t seem to matter that it was me who’d called the emergency services in the first place, a fact verified by my cell phone company’s records.  He’d simply put two and two together and come up with about a-fucking billion.  My life was fucking _over_ , certainly my actingcareer and quite possibly my marriage at this rate.  Catastrophising now, I figure, _WHAT THE FUCK AM I GONNA DO?_

I don’t even know the poor woman’s name.  Fuck, it’d never even occurred to me to ask with all the other crap going on, the brutality of what happened to her was just too raw to form any coherent questions.  I wonder how she’s doing now and what she’s told the authorities about the attack.  She can’t have told them I wasn’t involved in it else I wouldn’t be still be in here, held as Suspect Numero Uno.  _Perhaps she’s still unconscious_ , I reason.  Or maybe _she can’t speak, her voice_ was _pretty raw._   Then a horrifying thought occurs to me, _is she even alive?_ It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d died as a result of her injuries, they was pretty bad.  With that alarming idea prominent in my mind, wondering how the hell I’d prove my innocence if she was dead, I abruptly plonk myself down on my cot, the fold-out bed type that swings down from the wall by chains.  Resting my elbows on my knees, I put my face in my hands and rub at my eyes.  _No_ , I think, trying to be rational, _if she was dead I’d know, they would’ve arrested me for murder_ , I muse.  I sit and worry, and rather unsuccessfully try to convince myself that she’s still alive.  Sitting up and stretching my arms, I puff my cheeks and exhale rapidly, audibly.  _Where the hell is that lawyer?_

Moments later, I’m angry.  _How the fuck could I…WOULD_ I _…do that to someone,_ especially _after what happened to me?  Can’t they fucking SEE that?_ Ugly thoughts race around my head.  It was the single-most difficult and emotionally distressing event in my whole life, and I hated the fact that I was still affected by it, the shame, the fucking embarrassment of it.  FUCK!  Being a guy, I’d deny it until I’m blue in the face but I am aware that those closest to me know it still plagues me, blindsiding at the most inconvenient and inopportune of times.  Hell, half the time I can’t even look at myself in the mirror to shave, never mind anything else, I feel I’m always a mere inch from falling apart.  I close my eyes and lean back heavily against the wall as my mind recalls the memory like it happened yesterday.  My eyes flick open as I shudder involuntarily, not entirely due to coldness of the wall.  _Do they even heat the cells_ , I wonder, idly.

They say 80% of rapes are committed by someone the known to the ‘victim’.  _Scratch that_ , I amend bitterly, _‘it’s SURVIVOR’._   But I instinctively knew that wasn’t the case for that woman in the alley.  She fell into the 20% bracket.  God knows how she was gonna get over what happened to her, it was so much worse.  So much worse than mine.  Than what happened to me.  I frown, REMEMBERING.

I guess the signs had been there all along.   The guy used to gaze at me intensely, almost adoringly, during many of the on-screen scenes we shared together.  But I’d thought nothing much about it, figuring it was part of his perception of his on-screen character, and he was actually very likeable and funny, charming in fact, and we’d got along great.  His character had become extremely popular during the previous couple of seasons and he’d even earned a Golden Globe in the process.  _Even Jared and me hadn’t earned one of those,_ I think bitterly.  He rapes me and earns an award for his efforts.  Ironically, his character on the show had been a protective, almost fatherly type for my own character.

Thankfully, his attack on me wasn’t general knowledge in the wider media.  With the stigma surrounding MALE RAPE – and I still shudder at those two words – and even though I was more forthcoming with emotions than my on-screen alter ego, it still rendered it practically impossible for me to talk about it.  It was actually Jared who noticed something was going on with me.  Which is why I knew he’d understand when I called him today following my arrest.  I’d eventually blurted it out whilst we were in my trailer – unfortunately, the original scene of the crime - following a drunken wrap party, and as soon as the showrunners found out, the guy’d been immediately fired and written out of the show.  I’d begged the producers not to press charges, to not pursue it as I didn’t want the public media circus that would surely surround it.  Plus I just didn’t want everyone – actually, I didn’t want anyone - _knowing_ , looking at me with that look of sympathy and pity.  Hell, I’d even threatened to walk from the show.  Eventually, though obviously concerned for my welfare, they’d relented and covered up the whole sickening episode for my benefit, threatening anyone who even mentioned it with a fat fucking lawsuit. 

Afterwards, I’d tried to get on with my life as best I could, even managing to stay with the show (which I did love), but it took momentous amounts of effort; obviously, reminders were everywhere.  I alternated between acting either like (a) it didn’t happen at all, or (b) I was totally over it.  But I knew it had forever changed me.  I was either super cold, or over sensitive.  Alone times were the worst - like now, in this cell - but memories and nightmares can surface at the stupidest of times and I became very angry at the hold he still has – correction, _had_ \- over me.  I hated the concerned, pitying looks people threw in my direction so I tried, perhaps somewhat futilely, to prove I was the same Jensen. BTA.  “Before The Attack”.  But fuck, it had been damned near impossible!  Sometimes I wonder just how I remain working on the show. 

In the end, I married my teenage sweetheart just to prove a point and stave off the gossips; we’d been back together for less than a year, meeting up again on the set of our made-for-TV movie.  _Marry in haste, repent at leisure_.  Not that I didn’t love her and she was absolutely gorgeous but she couldn’t – or wouldn’t? –understand how what happened had irrevocably changed me.  Would we have wed so quickly if it hadn’t have happened?  Had I not had to prove that I was OK, that I was still a MAN, worthy of my on-screen tough guy persona?  I didn’t think so.  But we’d had a beautiful daughter this last year - JJ – who proved to be my saving grace and I absolutely adored her, she was the apple of my eye. In spite of myself, I find myself smiling briefly, as I think of her; me: the proud daddy.  Then in a flash it’s gone as I remember my current predicament. 

 _I need to stop thinking about this_.  Shifting position, I lay down on the thin lumpy mattress, head on pillow, trying to calm myself and mentally breathe through the coping exercises that the counsellor the show had forced me to see had provided.  But my thoughts drift inevitably to the events of the alley and I think of the poor woman broken on the floor.  _Why hadn’t I DONE something better/more productive/more supportive, to help her?_ But I already knew the answer.  _Because you’re a coward_ , my subconscious screams back at me.I blink miserably through my self-loathing, tears threatening to fall, so I hastily drape my arm across my eyes, wiping the wetness away before they betray my weakness completely.  _FUCK!_ I curse mentally, _a fucking year, A FUCKING YEAR AGO!  I should be over this shit by now._   Sighing, I speak aloud to the empty cell, “I can’t do this, I can’t go through this again, for anyone”. 


	5. Chapter 5 - Denny Makes a Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rape recollection, please don't read if this is a trigger.

#  CHAPTER FIVE – DENNY MAKES A STATEMENT

I’m in the comfortable safety bubble of my hospital room.

Detective Henriksen is sitting expectantly at the side of my bed on one of the plastic chairs.  I’m wondering vaguely why I’ve let him sit this close to me, I’m not enjoying his proximity but not willing to say anything either.  _I hope his back hurts like hell tomorrow_ , I think malevolently.  Sarah is on my other side, holding my hand and glaring unfavourably at Henriksen.  _Clearly not a fan then_ , I think, smiling internally at her loyalty, glancing down at our entwined hands; I’d gotten over my aversion to her gentle touches by now.  Henriksen breaks the pregnant silence hanging over the room. 

“Okay. Denny, clearly I _know_ this gonna be difficult for you, but I need you to tell me in, your own words, what you remember from the night of February 15 th, after you left the, um, convention?” he flicks through the pages of his scruffy ring-bound notepad before plonking a digital recorder on my tray table and depressing the REC button.  I eye him worriedly.

The hospital had finally relented about my flat refusal of therapy before talking to Henriksen.  I was having none of it, and after several unsuccessful days of trying to persuade me otherwise, they’d permitted the persistent detective his interview, under very mild sedation and with psychological support.  _In a safe_ environment.  Obviously I’d asked for Sarah as my chaperone. 

So there we were, the three of us huddled around my bed.  I obviously had issues with it though less so with Sarah who I now trusted implicitly; she was easy to trust being so lovely.  Henriksen’s presence I still struggled massively with, for more than reasons than one; it was clear we were never going to become buxom buddies.  So it’d been suggested that we use first names to try and break the ice between us, apparently to soften the gravity of the situation.  I glance to my left at Sarah, hesitating, unsure whether or not I want her to hear this.   _She’ll look at you differently_ , my subconscious roared, _she’ll know how dirty you are,_ anddon’t think I can cope seeing any more pity in her eyes.

“Denny it’s okay, remember what we talked about”, she’s saying, squeezing my hand gently.  “I’m here for you”, she continues before glaring unceremoniously at Henriksen.  “Nothing is going to happen that you don’t _want_ to happen, and you can stop any time you want to.  RIGHT, Detective?” 

Henriksen nods.  It’s clear he feels her animosity.

“Um”, I falter, wondering where to begin, if I _can_ begin.  But I know I can do this.  I have to do this.  I stick my chin out in defiance. “I-I…”

Henriksen cuts me off.  “Look.  If it helps, we believe have one of the, ah… _perps_ …in custody, back at the station”, says ‘Victor’.  _Funny,_ I think pointlessly, _he doesn’t look like a Vic,_ the irony of the shortened version of his name not lost on me.  I stare at him in shock, sputtering, “what--who--how could you _possibly_? How have you not told...w--what?”  He quickly looks down at his notes, eyes drifting to the envelope on his lap.  “We believe we have one of the, um, _asshats_ that attacked you”.  I gawp at him, disbelievingly.  How could he _possibly_ know who had done this to me, when even _I_ wasn’t sure, brain-stabbing imagery and nightmares aside.  I stiffen as ‘Vic’ stands abruptly, pulling photos from the manila envelope and plonking them unceremoniously, one after the other, onto my hospital table.  “We’ve kept you away from the media so far, Ms—er--Denny, but I have to ask you now…do you recognise this guy?” My eyes instantly drop to the photos, nevertheless I don’t really see them as I can’t bring myself to look.  Instead, I examine my extremely short nails, idly thinking how much they’d benefit from a nice French manicure, _maybe some silk extensions_ I think.  Then I drag my eyes up my arm from my fingers, pausing on the red finger marks and yellowing bruises around the wrist that are visible now that my bandages have been removed.

Henriksen clucks impatiently and, realising his patience is wearing thin, I finally sneak a peek at the photos, recognising the handsome face on the topmost image.  Closing my eyes, my head sways back and forth slightly as I grip the bar on the side of the bed with my free hand.  Before the darkness descends, I feel Sarah squeeze my other hand, willing me to focus.  Something isn’t quite right but I’m not able to put my finger on it.  I open my eyes. 

“I--“, I croak. 

It’s been just over one week since the attack and my throat is still recovering from the bruising.  I pause and reach for the glass on the table, taking a sip of water. 

Clearing my throat, I start again.  “I--“.  I press the heel of my hand to my forehead just over my right eyebrow, feeling the soreness of the bump there.  I drop my hand.  “Look Detective, I can remember, the--ah-- _thing_ ,” I stutter.  Sarah is looking at me, eyes full of empathy but I ignore her, I can’t cope with that right now.  I continue, “…exceptWHO.  Yes clearly I know this guy.  But--”.  I stop.  Instinctively, I know the gorgeous guy in the photos was with me in the alley because I see his face swimming around in my visions and nightmares every night.  Bizarrely though, he’s never been a malevolent presence, practically the opposite.  _But why else would I see HIM?_   Probably doesn’t help to know that HE is the very suspect that Vic mentioned earlier, and that he was arrested apparently as soon as the Police arrived on the scene that night.  I just can’t see _him_ doing….THAT.  In my mind’s eye I see yellowing teeth and blackness.  And alcohol-tainted breath!  It didn’t fit; nothing fit.  My eyes shoot back to Vic, seeing – _really_ seeing - his complexion, his blackness.  I feel confused as he leans forward slightly, raising his brows as a question.  Not knowing what else to do, I begin to nod…

**  
**

 


	6. Chapter 6 - Jensen's Pointof View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rape aftermath

#  CHAPTER SIX - JENSEN'S POINT OF VIEW

Finally coming to my fucking senses after the shock of her passing out on me, I search my jacket pockets - which is still tucked rather neatly around her abdomen - for my cell.  Finding it, I quickly flip it open and stab 911 out on the keypad.  “Ambulance.  And Police, please.  I’m at....”  I continue to tell the voice where I am and what’s happened, feeling like a total asshole.  _Why didn’t I do more_ , I ponder, pulling the unconscious form of the woman toward me and cradling her head to my chest, not caring that the blood seeping from the deep cut on her face is dripping onto my favourite Batman shirt.  _I’m supposed to fucking know what to do!_   I definitely haven’t helped much so far.  _Why didn’t I go after that fucker and beat him to a pulp?_

I hear the sirens in the distance drawing closer now and I check on her, tilting her chin up to get a better view of her face.  I’m thrilled to see her eyes are open again, she’s awake and seemingly relatively lucid now, even responsive.  Her eyes flutter as she leans into my chest, sensing comfort there but weeping softly in her grief and wetting my shirt further.  Bizarrely, she hasn’t pushed me away.  Her expression and defensive posture tell me she’s in a lot pain, the terrorised look on her beaten up face quite familiar to me now.  

She still won’t look directly at me so I take a deep breath as I awkwardly shift position, the coldness of the ground seeping through my jeans.  Taking her face gently between the palms of my hands and bowing my forehead to hers, I try to WILL her to understand the paralysis of my earlier inaction.  Strangely, she still doesn’t flinch away.  The sirens get louder and finally woo to a halt at the entrance of the dark alley, flashing blue lights illuminating the way.  I hear a commanding voice.  “Sir?  Let her go, sir”.  I look up, noting the revolving reflection of the lights on the black steel of a gun levelled directly at my face.  I blanch and before I know it, I’m hoisted roughly to my feet and my hands cuffed behind my back.  _Not for the first time_ , I muse, thinking of the show _but definitely the first time for real_.  My TV show definitely doesn’t demonstrate the brutality of an arrest when everyone think you’re a rapist, and I vaguely register they must think I did this as the steel bites into my wrists.  Blue lights, sirens and the barrel of a gun is all I remember before being dragged down the alley and chucked unceremoniously into an armoured police van.  “So, _MISTER_ Winchester”, a cool voice says, “What do you have to say for yourself?” 


	7. Chaper 7 - Denny's Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denny remembers her gang rape in vivid detail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very brutal gang-rape, be WARNED, it is quite graphic.

#  CHAPTER SEVEN – DENNY’S FLASHBACK

I sway slightly as I get over the giddiness of the fan photos, I’d been waiting for the much coveted J2 ones all day with an increasing sense of nervous excitement and the boys hadn’t disappointed.  I was thankful I’d upgraded to a ‘gold’ pass meaning I hadn’t had to wait in the lengthy queues for too long.  The boys had been amazingly sweet and the massive crushing bear hug I’d received for the photo, sandwiched between them, was utterly awesome.  And they smelled sooooo good!  Upon first walking in the room and seeing the guys just standing there, in the flesh, had completely floored me, causing the butterflies in my stomach to flutter nervously as the queue quickly moved forward with each flash of the camera.  By the time I stepped forward, I found myself literally unable to string a sentence together, which made explaining what I pose I wanted for the photo fairly difficult!  But as soon as Jensen fixed me with his gorgeous green eyes, smiling down at me reassuringly, a sense of amusement tracing across his handsome face, I’d immediately relaxed, and the photo went without a hitch.  My legs however went to jelly as I staggered out of the room!

 _Fucking brilliant_ , I grin to myself, trying to hold on to the memory for as long as possible and praying I hadn’t been too ‘fangirl’, all uncool and ‘number-one-faaaaaan like” but I did feel exactly like a daft teenager meeting her pin-up crush!  I couldn’t wait to see the photos for real.  I’d absolutely loved being at the Convention so far and had met many people in between the photo ops and the panels, my new American friends seemingly rather amused by my clipped English accent and overall Britishness!  Originally, my husband was supposed to join me but we’d sadly agreed to separate a few weeks before so I’d ended up attending alone.  _He’d hate this,_ I think dryly, thankful he wasn’t here so I didn’t have to deal with him.  I hugged my new friends goodnight, declining their tempting invitations for more vodka shots in the bar in favour of my comfortable bed.  I was exhausted and planned on getting a taxi back to my motel, ready for another early morning Convention start.

Stepping out of the door and feeling the cool breeze, I pulled my jacket round my shoulders, it was colder than I’d expected, or that had been forecast.  Looking up and down the street for cab, or even a taxi rankfor that matter – if such a thing exists in New Jersey (I’m British, what do I know!) – I figured that as it was only about a 10-minute walk back to my motel, I would probably be there before I could hail a cab anyway, saving myself a few bucks in the process.  Happily, smiling and humming softly to myself, I set off down the street, trying to ignore the ache of my back.

“Sorry?  Oh yeah, it’s 10 to 1 mate”, I grin, as a clearly inebriated bloke staggers across my line of vision, asking for the time.  I smile in amusement as he wobbles in front of me before belching loudly.  “Don’t worry mate, it’ll only be worse in the morning, drink lots of water before bed”, I advise, giving him the benefit of my own dealings with rotten hangovers.  “Good luck with that!” I wave him off, turning to continue my short journey down the street.  Unexpectedly, a strong hand stops me in my tracks, firmly grasping my arm.  _What--?_ I try to shrug away but turn to see the drunken man again, now leering down at me.  I’m suddenly aware of how massive he is.  “Oy mate.  Let go!” I protest indignantly but he doesn’t release his tightening grip and for a few seconds we’re motionless together in the street, just standing there regarding each other.  Paralysed by a sudden wave of fear, I don’t attempt to run off down the street either. 

Finally coming to my senses, I open my mouth to yell but I’m grabbed round the base of my neck and the shout dies in my throat.  I feel myself half-dragged and half-pushed toward an ominous looking alley nearby.  Seconds later I hear the scornful mocking of another male voice.  “Well, looky what we haaaave heeeere”.  Not quite sure what’s occurring, I feel myself propelled forward and I stagger.  My head spins and I wish I hadn’t downed those vodka shots back at the bar.  The iron grip on my arm tightens as I’m hauled unceremoniously past a stinking dumpster.  I trip over something and hit the floor hard, hands splayed, forehead-planting into the sudden unforgiving hardness, the sting causing tears to spring up. 

“You did well bro, she’s quite a pretty one, and I do like me a bit o’ MEAT on ‘em!”

I flip myself over feeling a bit dazed, trying to prop myself up on both elbows before hastily favouring my left side to alleviate the bite of the bloody graze on my right elbow.  Testing my forehead with my right hand, I feel the throb of a wound there too.  _Awesome,_ I frown at my hand in misplaced irritation, like it’s its fault I’m in this predicament.  _A good look for the Convention photos tomorrow,_ I think randomly.  Dropping my hand and looking around _,_ the potential seriousness of my situation dawns on me.  Three large black men grin toothily and leer down at me, cruelty obvious in their eyes as I stare uncertainly back at them. _This is definitely not good_ , I think, vodka-haze gone. 

“Get her over here, I’m having first go”.  Realising what is about to happen, I try to dodge their hands by crawling between their legs.  “Agggghhh” I shriek, as hands grab my hair making my eyes smart with water.  I’m roughly dragged behind a dumpster and thrown forward on the ground.  The elder man steps forward, unbuckling his belt, a malicious glint in his eye.  I know what’s coming next.  “STOP!” I beg, pure panic evident in my voice.  I rather pathetically hold my hands up in front of me in a yielding gesture as I watch his approach, as if it’s gonna help.  _Was I actually thinking I could possibly diffuse this situation with that?_ I spit at myself. 

There’s a sudden movement as a boot tip smashes into my face, snapping my head back against the wall again with a sickening thud.  I cry out in pain, seeing stars and fucking _tweety_ birds, Tom  & Jerry style.  “Shut up bitch!” huffs a voice.  _Fuck, that hurt!_   I gingerly press my palm to my cheek, dimly aware of the warm trickle of blood on my fingers.  I blink rapidly, trying to clear my head.  Suddenly something - _someone_ \- shoves me flat to the floor on my back and holds me down.  Fingers tighten menacingly, cutting off my air supply.  I kick out in terror. 

In the next few seconds, through the lack of oxygen and descending blackness, I can feel multiple sets of hands roughly roaming my body, over my clothes, FUCK, _under_ my clothes, undoing them, ripping them away.  I feel a draught of coolness over my chest as my jacket and shirt are torn open, buttons popping and rolling all over the place.  My bra is roughly hoisted up and another hand is shoved forcefully down my jeans.  The restraining hand abruptly lets go of my throat and I gulp air gratefully.  “NOO--nnnnfff!”  I yell, struggling against the hands before my shouts are cut off by several kicks to my side.  Feeling and hearing the sickening crunch of a rib break, I curl up sideways, doubled over trying to protect myself, coughing gently against the pain.  Hands are still clawing at me.  _PLEASE!_

“Enough of this”, barks a voice.  “Grab that.  Drag it over here!”  I vaguely wonder what he means before hearing a trashcan clatter to the floor as it’s apparently kicked over, lid bursting open and contents spewing across the floor.  Then there’s the sound of metal scraping against concrete, not unlike fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.  I involuntarily wince, I hate that sound.  Hauling myself painfully onto my hands and knees now, I again try in vain to crawl away, away from the kicks and the invading hands. I notice my fingertips and nails are a mess, red raw and broken from clawing at the unforgiving floor.  The metallic scraping stops.

“’For fuck’s sake, will you GETher, I said _GET HER_.  Hold the bitch down”.  I’m weightless for a brief moment as I’m thrown over the toppled trashcan with a bang, rib complaining terribly, breath shoved out of me.  The hard surface of the bin is ridged and cold against my naked chest, and my nose twitches against the smell of garbage.  Hands push and pull me into the required position whilst I struggle against their restraining holds as best I can, limbs flailing and kicking out in panic whilst hearing the merciless jeers and whoops of the brothers shouting in glee.

“Noooooooo!” 

I’m held over the trashcan face down.  I feel a hand slide round to my abdomen and after some awkward fumbling, my jeans are yanked roughly down, the familiar roughness of the denim scuffing my bare thighs and buttocks, restraining my flailing legs at the knee.  Hearing the unmistakeable sound of a zip unfastening, I weakly struggle but something soft and weighty ‘spoons’ me from above, pinning me to the cold trashcan.   With the help of one of his brothers, my capturer extends my arms over my head and pins both wrists to the bin with one of his bear-claw sized hands; I now literally cannot move and I’m utterly terrified.  _This is it_ , I think bracing myself.

I feel the last barrier - my underwear – ripped away.  “NNnnnnnnoooo-o--o--oooooooo”, I scream and almost see stars again as the man rams himself home in one swift fluid motion, hard.  No lube, no spit, no nothing, and I’m dry.  I hear the menacing jeers and claps from the others, delighted in watching their brother rape me.  Pausing for a moment and grinning up at his brothers, he adjusts his angle before plunging in again, causing me to huff aloud with each merciless thrust as my body is pummelled again and again against the steel of trashcan, the gravel digging painfully into my knees.  “C’mon babe, we wanna hear you beg for it”, he mumbles in my ear, bending ruthlessly over me.

I can barely think past the pain.  He’s a ‘large’ man and it hurts.  _He’s hurting me,_ is all I can think and I moan aloud again, renewing my struggles against him but knowing it’s pointless.  _He’s probably enjoying me trying to fight back_.  If the situation wasn’t so horrifying, my pathetic struggles would be laughable: I’m pinned by a large man brutally raping me, holding me down, my knees held together by my own fucking jeans.  And I can do nothing to stop it. 

Grunting and whispering crudely in my ear, he pants out, “uhhhhh, I just love a struggler” as he fucks relentlessly into me, his punishing pace increasing now as he tightens his grip on my wrists.  With each thrust, I feel the trashcan slam painfully against my hips and sore ribs.  _I’m sooo gonna be bruised!_ I think, sagging against the bin, the fight leaving me altogether.  I wonder how much more I can take.  I’m afraid he’s going to do me some permanent damage!  Suddenly, his breathing hitches and his thrusting become erratic; I can tell he’s close.  With one final pump, he orgasms violently inside me, I can literally feel his seed filling me up.

My now red and swollen wrists are released as my abuser stands and steps back, zipping himself away.  With relief I think, _finally it’s over,_ and start to slump down the trashcan.  Except that my nightmare isn’t over, I’d momentarily forgotten about the other two brothers, each wanting a turn on their new fuck toy.

Palming himself through his jeans and clearly aroused at the sight of his horny brother fucking some helpless white chick, the second man steps forward, hard-on tenting his trousers.  Pushing his spent sibling away, he stops rubbing himself and unbuckles his belt whilst I’m still sliding to the floor.  He pulls out his frankly _enormous_ cock and my eyes widen at the sight.  He is _HUGE!_ He’s on me in one quick lunge, pulling me up from my slumped crouch on the floor and throwing me back over the bin once more.  A calloused hand presses down on my lower back beneath my shirt, another grasps my ass.  He’s already groaning in arousal.

Even though I’m clearly expecting it, I cry out anyway as he shoves into my already abused cunt, literally continuing from where his brother left off.   By now I’m really sore and raw down there, it stings like a fucking bitch and I find myself feeling grateful for the lube from the previous man’s climax despite the sting of his cum, literally like rubbing salt into the wound.

Bizarrely I feel my jacket being tugged off, I’m surprised to find I’m still wearing it.  In what I think is a curious act of kindness, my current abuser hastily folds it up and places it almost _tenderly_ under my face where my cut cheek is pressed against the trashcan.  I twist my head to look back at him, eyeing him curiously and he pauses in his thrusting, pulling out all the way.  He smirks down at me before roughly flipping me onto my back, head resting on the jacket, legs bent at the knees over the edge of the bin.  Then he lets go of me completely ….and I do _nothing_ , I just lie there, watching him like everything is happening in slow motion; I’m completely immobile.  He moves around the trashcan towards my face.  His huge cock bobs expectantly at eye level and I recoil in revulsion, keeping my mouth closed.  “Nnnnn-ahhhh” I mumble.

Bending over me slightly, he pinches a bare nipple.  I gasp and he quickly shoves his cock - covered in both my own juices and his own brother’s come - into my mouth.  I taste a metallic, coppery tang too.  He continues shoving in until he’s up to his balls in my mouth, the tip of his cock touching the back of my throat, hitting my gag reflex.  I swallow and retch, eyes bulging, and desperately grasp the edge of the bin, I can’t breathe.  “There, bitch, and if you use your teeth you will regret it”, he says menacingly.  My jaw aches and tears well up in my eyes.  He grabs tight hold of my hair at both sides not giving me any space to move away as he pumps into my throat; I’m helpless, gagging.  Abruptly and I assume _before_ I suffocate, he pulls out, a string of precum and saliva linking us together, and I baulk.  But before it properly registers in my mind, another brother pins my arms above my head again and I’m stretched painfully across the bin, jeans now round my ankles, the belt buckle scraping against the concrete floor.  My shirt is still flapping wide open.

My jeans are yanked from around my ankles and discarded, and I realise I’m totally naked from the waist down, the coolness of the night air spreading over me like dry ice from a Vegas stage show.  I’m pulled down the trashcan until my ass is flush with the edge, legs dangling uncomfortably.  I squirm, trying to shift position before feeling my knees pushed up to my chest.  My current abuser glances up at his sibling holding my arms before placing each of my legs over his shoulders. 

Leaning forward and straining the tendons in my legs, he says, “I want you to watch me fuck you, if you close your eyes I will beat you”.  I nod, terrified.  Looking into my eyes like the tender lover he _isn’t_ , he grunts as he thrusts forward again and places a bruising hand over my mouth to muffle my cries.  I struggle to keep my eyes on his whilst he kneads each of my breasts in turn like he’s making fucking bread, whilst fucking into me.  He looks down and callously tweaks a nipple.  “Mfffff!” I muffle, involuntarily squeezing my eyes closed.  I feel a sharp sting as he slaps my face hard and my eyes fly open, focussing on him.  He smirks down at me, eyes bearing down on mine.  “I told you to watch, bitch”.  He’s hasn’t stopped fucking into me this whole time. 

I feel him stagger unsteadily before climaxing, with one final, deep bruising thrust.  I close my eyes in disgust, silent tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.  Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he pulls up his pants and re-buckles his belt, stepping away.  The hands holding my arms down also leave go.  “Fuck bro, she is _tight_!” he grins as they high five each other, delighted.  “Maybe a bit less so now though, eh?” he winks conspiratorially.  I sink unsteadily to the floor and tentatively touch my hand to my face, my tears stinging the wound on my cheek.  Something trickles slowly from between my legs and I’m aware I feel very _wet_ down there.  _That’ll be the semen of two fucking rapists then_ , I think savagely.

A booming voice snaps me back to the moment.  “Well I’m not having sloppy fucking thirds, seconds is bad enough!” the voice says and I realise it’s coming from the brother who’d asked for the time, which felt so long ago now.  He quickly closes the distance between us, and I’m yanked up by my arm, finding myself thrown over the frigging trashcan again.  I hate that trashcan.  My forehead bangs against its coldness and throbs painfully, I feel dizzy.  “Hold her down, I going to fuck her in the ass”.  He says it like it’s just fucking _occurred_ to him.   There’s sheer brutality in this voice.  Even though I’m feeling lightheaded, pain radiating all over now, the sentence registers and I exclaim aloud.  No-one has ever done that to me nor even _touched_ me there.

I look over my shoulder, taking in the three brothers stepping ominously towards me.  “N-n-no -not--“.  I open my mouth but the yell comes out as a croak, my throat clearly still raw from being half-strangled.  I try to crawl up, round, fucking _over_ the bin to get away, but it’s futile; I begin to beg. 

“Path- _e-tic_ ”, the middle brother - the one who just raped me - snorts, slapping my ass and leaving a vivid red handprint.  “Quiet, bitch!” he orders; I stop begging.  Suddenly in my line of sight, the elder brother – the first rapist - looks rather uncertain; I can tell he’s not sure he has the stomach for this.  Nevertheless, they jointly grab me and bend me once again over the trashcan, my legs spread wide at the knee.  My jacket is long gone, on the floor somewhere.  The brothers shift position, each taking a firm hold of one of my bruised wrists, spread-eagling me from above.  I sense the youngest brother behind me, _preparing_ , hearing the squelchy slap-slap-slap whilst he manhandles himself ready.  I stiffen in terror as I feel his cock rubbing around the raw wetness of my pussy. 

“For lubricant” he says.  “Not for you, for me – don’t wanna rip my dick whilst dry humping your ass”, I hear the amusement in his unkind voice.  The two other brothers exchange glances but stay put, still pinning me to the bin.  I barely register where I am.

Using the disgusting mixture of my blood and his brothers’ semen as an impromptu lubricant, he smears it all over his dick with his hand, pumping it slightly.  I brace, trying to force myself to relax at the same time.  _Not an easy feat_ , remembering I’d read somewhere that relaxing helps with the burn of anal sex.  The brother spits a gob of saliva onto my quivering asshole and readies himself.

It turns out nothing can really prepare you for being sodomised so brutally.  They _want_ it to hurt, like pulling a plaster slowly off a hairy arm, inch by fucking inch.  And, just like his brothers, he was NOT a small guy.  I wail and wince and howl and try to get away, in clear agony as he ruthlessly pushes into my unwelcoming, stubborn hole.  Try as I might, I can’t help clenching.  He ignores it, easing slowly but determinedly past the first ring of muscle.  _I guess he doesn’t want to rip himself on my dry innards_.

Snot and tears stream down my face as I squirm trying to get away from the torture.  Taking absolutely no heed of my distress and pressing my body firmly against the bin, he continues to push forward, shoving past the second wall of muscle, eventually bottoming out.  He completely ignores my wails of agony.  “Ohhhhhhhh”, he exhales in sweet ecstasy, closing his eyes for a second, “just so fucking tight, guys – this is tighter than anything I’ve ever experienced!  He grins at his brothers, before bringing his open hand sharply down on my ass as his brother did earlier, the slap echoing in the alleyway.  “A’ thought you weren’ gonna let me in for a sec there, bitch.  Did you ac’shully _clench_?”  He laughs.  “I have a feeling this won’t be a long fuck, she’s so tight!”

He begins to move and I clench involuntarily, trying to repel the intruder.  Nevertheless he manages to slide almost all the way out of my ass so only the tip remains inside, then violently plunges back in.  I cry out, the pain is making my head spin.  _There’s those stars again_ , I think miserably.  I can’t relax.  I can’t get away.  I c-c-cant.  _This is the worst of the three_.  He maintains a gruelling rhythm of fucking my no-longer virgin ass as deep and hard and brutal as he can, as if trying to inflict maximum pain.  Twisting his fingers in my hair now and pulling sharply, my torturer uses it as leverage to get in a particularly deep thrust.  “Fuck!” he exclaims and I feel something else slick the way.  _Must be my blood,_ I think fuzzily, before briefly passing out.

I come to seconds later and the grips on my wrists have slackened.  I struggle weakly, eyes still screwed shut, brow furrowed in agony.  I open my eyes to see his brothers exchanging uncertain glances and I stare at them in anguish, silently pleading with them as my body is relentlessly pummelled against the hard edge of the trashcan.  The seconds stretch by.  The two brothers seem to realise there’s a line which even _they_ hadn’t crossed.  Simultaneously letting go of my wrists, they chance a last look at the scene unfolding before them before turning on their heels and hot footing it out of the dirty alley.

The remaining brother barely even registers they’ve left, clearly in a state of escalating euphoria.  _He’s absolutely loving this!_ I think miserably.  He’s inside me, RAPING me, raping my ass, hurting me in the most intimate, excruciating way possible, and he’s fucking loving it; hell, he’s actually _revelling_ in my misery and agony.  I can’t take it anymore.  “Please, please”, I rasp, begging again, “ _p-p-please_ stop, I’ll do anything, please, it hurts so much, I can’t take any more, I c-c-cant”, I shriek, my free arms now flailing having been freed.  But he doesn’t stop, merely pauses in his ministrations to further twist his fingers cruelly in my hair, bringing my head up and smashing my face into the trashcan.  “I said BE quiet”, he grunts.  I have never felt such crippling pain over my whole body in my entire life.  I want to die.

Something moves just out of my line of sight and I hear a gravelly voice that I swear is vaguely familiar to me, and I realise with horror that there is another man in the alleyway.  I pray it’s not a brother returning for another go.  Utterly terrified at that thought, I shriek, begging and snivelling and fucking _praying_ ; I don’t actually believe in a God but I’ll do or try anything right about now, half out of my mind with pain and grief.  “No!” I exclaim, “I c-c-can’t, take another, not another--” I start to slur my words, tears and snot streaming down my face.  I screw my eyes shut again as I realise the thrusting has become erratic, signalling that the rapist must be close.  I feel him tense, followed by a couple of harsh thrusts as he ejaculates _hard_ into my wrecked ass with a groan and a shudder, collapsing onto my back and huffing heavily in my hair as he recovers his poise.  I sag once again against the bin, I’m exhausted and broken.  After a few moments, he gathers himself together and pulls out of me with one swift, final burning motion, his exit clearly eased by a combination of my blood and his cum.  I wince at the abruptness of the loss.  He steps away, tucking himself into his jeans.  I hear him speaking but don’t register words, instead I’m grateful that I can finally slide to the floor. 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8 - Kindred Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen is released from jail

#  CHAPTER EIGHT – KINDRED SPIRITS

“—severe injuries”, the brisk voice says.  “One broken rib, two fractured ribs, multiple contusions to the forehead and cheekbone, bruising around the throat and neck, bruised and swollen wrists, bloodied fingertips, ragged nails, all over body bruising, one large black eye…”  She coughs against her hand before continuing, “…anal _and_ vaginal tearing, and…” she pauses, I hear a page flick over, “…injuries generally consistent with multiple rap--” I close my eyes and sink into oblivion.

 

* * * * *

 

I’d been released from police custody exactly two hours ago.  Henriksen had suddenly burst into the interview room, brown envelope in hand, looking a bit wild-eyed and rather sheepish.  “Looks like you were telling the truth.  We got the wrong guy after all.  But you already knew that”, he says eyeing me carefully.  I sit rigid against the hard back of the uncomfortable plastic chair, feeling the bite of the cuffs around my left wrist securing me to the chair.  _No shit,_ I think sourly but relief washes through me in spite of myself.  Whilst not exactly full of verbal apologies – “ _I was just doing my job”_ – Henriksen at least has the decency to look remorseful.  “No charges Mr Ackles, you’re free to go”.

Apparently, it’s standard procedure following a sexual attack of this magnitude to perform a rape kit on the vic— _survivor,_ as soon as possible in order to gain as much physical evidence as they can, and one had been performed on the woman whilst unconscious in the ER.  Apparently, even though she’d woken up in the alley after I called the emergency services, she quickly passed out in the ambulance.  So they now had samples of the rapists’ DNA - semen, pubic hair, skin scrapings from her fingernails - and even goddamn fabric fibres from their clothing, all meaning I was finally in the clear.  But I can’t stop thinking about woman and notfor the first time, my heart goes out to her.  I wonder where she is, how she’s doing and relate that to Henriksen whilst he’s completing the paperwork securing my release.  He looks startled for a moment at the question and drops my gaze.  “Surviving”.

After reinstating my belongings from that night – cell, watch, wallet, ring, fricking _shoe laces_ (WTF?) – and given it was now early evening, Henriksen at least had had the decency to give me a ride to “wherever I wanted to go”, as he put it.  _Needed_ _to go,_ I amended mentally, I knew I couldn’t face the glare of the world yet, I had to get away and clear my head, pull myself together and have a goddamn SHOWER before being able to face everyone so I’d requested the nearest faceless hotel, _not_ the one I’d been staying at prior to my arrest - the paparazzi had surrounded it, microphones and cameras and fucking people just everywhere.  Henriksen seemed to sense I was wrestling with something _other_ than wrongful arrest and media glare – wrong guy wrong place wrong time - but clearly he couldn’t have had any clue as to the thoughts running around my head.  Pulling up at the curbside of a rather grand looking hotel, he puts the car in park and glances over at me, a glimmer of unmistakeable guilt - and pity - in his eyes.  I fucking HATE that look, so familiar to me now, and I feel like stabbing him in the face.  But I know it’s not his fault, “just doing his job” as he said, and my murderous moment passes as he hands me a pair of Ray-Bans from his visor and a baseball cap from the glove compartment.  I take them wordlessly.  “Hey, um I’m sorry, for the--”, he starts to say regretfully and I know it’s the truth but I can barely acknowledge his words.  I can’t get out of that damned car fast enough, slamming the door hard.

Finding myself suddenly on the sidewalk and in spite of the fact that it’s early evening and therefore getting _dark,_ I shove the sunglasses and cap on and stride into the hotel, checking in under an assumed name.  Entering the safety my room, I shut the door behind me then lean against it, breathing deep calming breaths.  Taking out my cell, I press the numbers into my phone and Jared answers on the second ring; clearly he’s been waiting for my call.  “Jen?  Thank God.  Are you ok?”  I can almost see him buoying up and down like a happy puppy.

“Yeah man, I’m at the NJ Grand, room 67—“.

“On my way.”  There’s a click and the line goes dead.

 

* * * * *

 

I’m hunched over, sitting on the edge of the king-size bed, elbows on knees, head in hands, fingertips gently massaging my eyebrows and temples in an attempt to fend off a banging headache.  I feel absolutely wretched, exhausted even, but I can’t sleep, thoughts whizzing through my mind at supersonic speed.  An untouched glass of whisky, plus the bottle, sit on the nightstand next to me.  Rather comically, Jared has folded his enormous lanky frame into the armchair opposite me, and is watching me with a pinched look on his face.  He keeps stealing tense worried glances when he thinks I’m not looking.  It would be funny if the circumstances weren’t so damned awful.

“Man, I dunno what the hell happened” I say gruffly, breaking the silence. 

Jared jumps slightly, his sudden confession sending more than a tingle up his spine.  He’d heard that desperate tone in his voice far more than he’d liked in the past year or so but now it was… _more_.  More broken, more unsure, more _stripped bare_.  Jared clenches his jaw so tightly it should’ve cracked a tooth and waits for what seems like the longest time for Jensen to continue.  Just as Jared’s beginning to wonder what the hell he can possibly say, Jensen shifts and rakes his trembling hand through his short hair, inhaling deeply and staring disconsolately at the ceiling, pursing his mouth.  It’s clear he’s reliving memories he’d rather have forgotten. 

“Jen, talk to me”. 

I look at him but say nothing, not really knowing where to start.  I know Jared is worried, I can see it clear in his eyes like a pair of fucking spotlights.  They say the eyes are windows to the soul and Jared’s are fucking plate glass right now.  Bringing a hand to rub at my tired eyes, I know I look dreadful, dark circles indicating my exhausted state.  I’ve not slept well in months, not since… _that_ ….  There hasn’t been a single day in the past year when I hadn’t thought about what happened, not a week had passed without waking in terror at least once, yelling and drenched in sweat.  Hell, between the nightmares and the paralysing panic attacks, I didn’t know how I got out of bed some days, let alone function like a _fucking_ normal human being.  _I hate this weakness,_ my _weakness,_ I think, _it’s my first thought in the morning and the last one at night_.  But until the events of that night in the alleyway, I’d begun to think that I was managing to a point where I could compartmentalise everything enough to get on with things without losing myself at the bottom of a bottle of whisky.  Or several barrels.  I glance at the nightstand, glaring murderously at the untouched whisky.  I know I’m barely holding it together. 

“Jare, I…” Dark thoughts are racing around my mind, memories seemingly not too fussed about when they pop up in glorious damn technicolour.  _How the hell do I cope with this?_ The events of the alleyway had succeeded in dredging up feelings I thought I’d stuffed away in the deep recesses of my brain but like a bursting dam, I can now do nothing to stop the horrific images flooding my mind.  So here I am, my arms hugging my body and rocking slightly on the edge of the bed, eyes now closed, head back, chin pointing at the ceiling, feeling Jared’s troubled eyes on me.  I feel my breath catch in my throat, each developing gasp quickly coming too fast, too shallow.  It’s happening again: _I’m going to have a panic attack!_

“Hey, calm down”, says Jared in alarm, springing up on his long limbs to his feet.  The bed dips as he sits down next to me.  I feel his gentle hand rest on my trembling shoulder and I just about manage not to jump out of my skin.  “Just breathe, Jay” he’s saying, affection and concern in his voice.  _I guess he thinks my nickname might calm me_. 

“Don’t beat ‘chaself up man, not after what you’ve been through, _nothing_ isyour fault”.  The bed springs up momentarily as he stands up, and I hear the clink of glass and glug of a liquid being poured.  The bed dips again as Jared sits back down, placing the glass of amber liquid in my palm, closing my hand around its coolness.  “Drink, it‘ll make you feel better”, he orders, taking a long sip of his own.  The glass shakes in my hand and I know I’m starting to hyperventilate.  Involuntarily I chuck the glass away and it hits the floor with a dull thump, its contents spilling onto the hideously patterned carpet. 

Making a sound somewhere between a moan and a choked sob, I take off for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.  I just about make it to the toilet before vomiting copiously.  It is exactly one week after my arrest, and the rape of the girl.  There’s a tentative knock at the bathroom door and a pause, followed by a soft voice.  “You okay?  Let me in man, I won’t come in unless you open the door, can I come in, please?  Jay?   _Please_ _man_ ” he pleads.  I flush the toilet and lean against the cool hardness of the bath.

After what seems like an agonisingly long time but in reality is really only a few seconds, I heave myself up from the floor and step toward the door, creaking it open a little, just a crack.  Jared pushes it open slowly and I don’t resist; he steps inside.  I can’t look at him, and instead settle myself in my previous position leaning against the bath.  Finding my shoes utterly fascinating I rest my chin on my knees and wrap my arms tightly around my shins.  Jared slides to the floor next to me and throws an arm loosely around my shoulders.  Bizarrely, I don’t flinch this time.  Dragging my chin up from its resting place on my knees with his hand, Jared forces my face to look at him, immediately noticing tears welling and threatening to fall.  He pulls me into an abrupt bear hug and it’s enough to finally push me over the edge, I collapse sobbing into his shoulder.  He’s holding me so tightly it’s as if he thinks I’ll slip away.

After a while, my sobs subside and I straighten up, wiping my eyes. I feel much calmer and my breathing is normal.  _Well I should do having just sobbed it out like a total girl for the last fifteen minutes_ , I think.  I clear my throat, I’ve come to a decision.  _No more chick flick moments._

“I-I have to see her”, I whisper.

Jared shakes his head.


	9. Chapter 9 - Leaving the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denny leaves the hospital having partially recovered, and with the help of Sarah, finds a new apartment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tender Jensen

#  CHAPTER NINE - LEAVING THE HOSPITAL

After a couple of weeks, I’m ready to leave the hospital and face the outside world again.  My physical injuries are healing, or are at least on their way, and the doctors seem relatively satisfied with my progress.  My various bruises are fading into hues of pale yellows and blues and purples.  Even my busted cheek is healing, save for a thin pink line; with a little bit of concealer and good lighting, you can’t even tell though I still avoid mirrors as best I can, not wanting to see the reminder there.  But it was the injuries you couldn’t see that were the most disturbing, but those would have to be dealt with during the coming weekly sessions with a rape counsellor. 

Where I was gonna go after leaving the hospital was another question but I was in the process of dealing with that.  I didn’t want to go back to the UK, I knew I had changed _forever_ and I couldn’t go back home now.  But obviously I couldn’t stay in the safety of my hospital cocoon here either, however much I wanted to.  Sarah sat on my bed as a friend now as opposed to ‘just’ my nurse.  She leans over my tray table, red pen in hand, circling ads in the newspaper spread out in front of us on the tray table.  “This could work, and it’s in my neighbourhood”, she grins at me.  Despite the slight age difference, we’d nevertheless become real friends, great mates actually, and had decided to keep in touch.  When I left the hospital, our friendship wouldn’t be slightly inappropriate as nurse/patient anymore. 

“Shall we go view it?” she asks, nodding encouragingly as supportive as ever.  I eye her eagerly liking the ‘we’, I knew I was being clingy but couldn’t help it.  “Make the appointment and we’ll go”.  Apparently, part of my healing process was that I had to do things for myself again.  I blanch but reach for my new cell, courtesy of Sarah, making an appointment for that very afternoon.  Sarah waits expectantly.  Whilst I’m dialling the number of the agent, incessant bleeping fills the room and, checking her pager, Sarah glances up at me looking startled and mutters, “ah, I’ll be right back” before existing the room.

After the call, I relax against the softness of my bed pillows, feeling fairly positive about this afternoon’s apartment viewing.  As I ponder my future, my cell rings unexpectedly and I frown; clearly there aren’t many people who have my new number.  I glance down at the screen announcing the caller.  It’s Detective Hendriksen.  I answer.  “Hello Detective”.  Hendriksen speaks a mile a minute into my ear, and my eyes widen in shock as he tells me the news: my rapists, all three of them, have been arrested!  It seems the eldest brother – actually the first to rape me – couldn’t live with his guilt and ended up handing himself in to NJPD.  All three are currently being held in the cells down at the local station, the elder brother being interviewed as we speak.  In fact, Hendriksen had stepped out briefly to inform me of the development as soon as he could.  _Not as much of an asshole as I first thought_ , I figure, snapping the phone shut.  The relief I feel is trememdous, now I feel I can truly move on.

 

* * * * *

 

At four that afternoon, we pull up at the curb, Sarah putting put her classic Volkswagen into park and pulling on the handbrake, an unreadable expression on her face.  “What?” I question.  She looks for a moment as if she’s going to say something but then checks herself and abruptly jumps out of the car, motioning for me to do the same.  I haven’t asked about her earlier page but something about it and her behaviour since doesn’t sit right but I say nothing.

We cross the street and enter the foyer of the apartment block.  Sarah seems a little jumpy and I notice her glancing around almost apprehensively.  In fact, she’s been acting oddly all afternoon.  _Probably thinks I’m going to lose it, unfamiliar surroundings and all that,_ I muse, not particularly liking the prospect.  But I’m determined to be calm.  We nod to the building commissionaire after signing the visitor register, and hail the lift which pings moments later, doors opening in front of us.  We step in and I push “6” on the button pad.  Doors close and the elevator begins its ascension, the numbered lights above the now closed door illuminating in succession, indicating the floor number.  We arrive at the sixth floor and the doors slide open.

Stepping out, I look around and exclaim “Oooooh this is nice Sar, what number is it again?”  We arrive outside a door labelled number 7 and Sarah unlocks it with the keys the real estate agent has lent us, pushing it ajar before hesitating at the helm.  I look at her questioningly.  _What is WITH her?_   “Er, sorry”, she mumbles, “I’ve just realised I left something in the car.  You go ahead, I’ll be right back”.  She rushes down the corridor without looking back and rounds the corner, out of sight.  Irritated at what could be so important _right this fricking second_ , I turn back to the apartment door and push it open, taking a few steps into the yawning hallway.  The door swings shut behind me, propelled by one of those spring hinge thingies.  I’m plunged into semi-darkness, the light provided by the corridor now gone.  I move forward, feeling half-blindly along the wall for the light switch, the only available light source coming through the partially closed Venetian blinds at the window of the room directly ahead.  It’s quiet, save for the hum of next door’s air-con unit and the distant sounds of traffic and everyday life from the street below.  

My fingers finally close over a switch and I press.  Nothing.  “Dammit”, I curse aloud in frustration.  I press the switch off and on several more times just to be sure, before looking up and seeing the empty socket in the light fitting above my head.  _No frigging bulb_.  Sighing, I take a few more steps forward, keeping my fingertips pressed to the wall lightly to keep my balance.  _Good job_ , I think, the irony not lost on me as I stumble over the carpet runner about halfway along the narrow hallway. 

There are several rooms off the hallway, indicated by closed doors.  Ahead is clearly the living room, its large blind-fitted window the source of the striping light drifting through its open doorway and illuminating the dim hallway.  I suddenly feel two contradictory emotions at the same time: unyielding claustrophobia, and the agoraphobia of the apartment’s ominous emptiness around me.  I inexplicably feel an anxiety knot form in my gut, and pause in my tracks, certain I’ve heard something.  A shuffle, a creak of a floorboard maybe?  I take an unconscious step backward, listening intently and squinting in the half light.  _Where IS Sarah?_  Hackles are now rising uneasily on the back of my neck.

I almost jump out of my skin as a tall, silhouetted figure steps quietly out of the shadows from the room at the end of the hall.  I involuntarily step backwards and all the way to the front door, feeling my back hit its unfamiliar hard flatness.  I reach frantically for the door handle with one grasping hand, keys held like a weapon between the fingers of my other hand – like I’d read to do in that _Cosmo_ article – I’m ready to strike should the form get too close.  _WHERE THE HELL IS SARAH?_ My heart thunders in my chest and my breathing becomes fast and erratic.  The person begins to speak.

 “Hey, er...” a gruff voice rumbles uncertainly, but the tone is gentle, “Please.  Don’t panic ok, I’m not going to hurt you.”  _I know that voice!_ I think wildly.  I can see the guy holding his hands up in an apparent non-threatening pose and eyeing me warily.  He’s is slowly creeping towards me.  In the gloom, I can see he’s tall, over 6’ and apparently muscular, with legs that are slightly bowed, like someone who’s done much horse riding as a child when undeveloped limbs easily bend around the barrel of a horse.  A memory flickers.

“Denny, come on”, he says, searchingly this time, “Please don’t be afraid of me”.  _Wait, how the hell does he know my name, my Goddamn_ nick _name?_  My brain is screaming at me to run for the hills, my whole body is shaking.  But the husky voice is strangely familiar, almost to the point of comforting but I can’t place it, it’s seemingly completely out of context.  I feel the hardness of the door beneath my splayed fingers and realise I’ve stopped grappling for the handle.  I’m rooted to the spot, frozen, I can’t move.  _This can’t be happening again!_

“Get back!” I order, finally finding my voice.  The figure pauses mid-step, his uncertainty clear judging from the stance of his hunched shoulders.  “Please, I…can’t--“.  My breathing quickly becomes ragged gasps.  _This is not happening_. 

He pauses, just three or four feet away.  Narrowing my eyes and squinting, I get a better look at the intruder, his placating posture not lost on me.  I hesitantly drag my eyes up to his but I’m so frightened of what I’ll see.  Although his face is still partially hidden in shadow, I know he’s staring intently at me, brow wrinkled, worried expression decorating his frankly beautiful chiselled features.  I can see he’s willing me to trust him, I can feel it practically radiating off him.  Feeling braver now, I stare back at him, my chin raised in defiance.  But hostility suddenly leaves me as my brain registers the unmistakeable compassion and sincerity in his very _familiar_ emerald green eyes momentarily illuminated by the headlights of a passing car.

“Wha— _J-J-Jensen, that can’t be you?!”_ I whisper in complete disbelief, my voice wobbling.  I cough, trying to clear the frog in my throat.  He gives me a nervous half-smile, his eyes still never leaving mine, followed by a small nod.  Still holding his hands up in front of him, he shuffles forward a bit more, his gaze sincere and not wavering one inch.  “I’m so damned sorry” he growls softly in that gruff voice of his, adored by so many fan girls all over the planet.  “I didn’t want to scare you but I knew you wouldn’t see me, i-i-if, I, uh…” he hesitates, “…i-i-if _we_ told you.  _I_ needed to see that you’re doing OK.  And also to e-e-explain”.He shakes his head slightly, despondently.

Time seems to stand still as we regard each other uncertainly in the hallway, me immobilised and braced against the door, _him_ paused halfway down the hallway still in a half-stance.  God knows how long we stand there staring at each other in that half-light.  The seconds crawl by and finally, it registers in my thick skull that he’s not going to attack me, he isn’t my enemy.  _He would’ve done something by now_ , I reason.  I seem to know that I’m safe, somehow I just _know._   Nevertheless, his voice has triggered things I’d rather not remember and memories flicker at the back of my mind like a bad TV signal.  I mentally push the bad thoughts away and sag against the door; short-lived relief washes over me as a mass of conflicting emotions take over: shame, embarrassment and _guilt_.  MY guilt. 

Finally finding my voice I grunt, “I-I-I--, uh.  Y-you--?”  I’m lost for words.  _Fuck,_ I think, _oh well done Denny_.  My brain is clearly still unable to form a coherent sentence or question in the presence of this man.  I don’t know what to say; what are you _supposed_ to say to the man who was so very wrongly – and very _publicly_ \- accused of being a vicious sexual predator, _your_ predator, but was in actual fact the only one who tried to help you, becoming, by extension, a victim himself of wrong time, wrong place?  And the poor schmuck gets arrested and broadcast to the entire media world as a brutal rapist for his trouble?  My legs are jelly and I collapse.

Seeing me finally crumple, Jensen is spurred into action and quickly closes the distance between us in two long strides, catching me on the way down. Crouching next to me now, he gathers me up in a protectively strong bear hug, holding my head close and stroking my hair.  Surprising even myself, I don’t flinch or resist his advances, instead leaning into the safety of his arms, finding it soothing.  He smells of soap, aftershave and vaguely, of whisky.  He smells wonderful, and exactly as I remember.

“I didn’t know!” I sob, mouth finally catching up with my brain and kicking into gear, “After waking up in the hospital, I-I didn’t even remember the attack!  Except the pain, or at least notat first.  I was so confused.  The detective….he showed me these photos, and I remembered you were there in the alle—“.  I cut myself off before continuing, “And I… oh dear.  But I promise I _know_ it wasn’t you, I know now it wasn’t you, who—who…“, I stammer, I can’t say the word, not yet.  I try again, repeating myself, “w-who--”, I falter, pitch rising a little. 

“Hey, I know.  Shhhhhh, it’s ok.  Really, I do get it”.  He kindly reassures me and I look disbelievingly at him with weary eyes.  Sitting down properly against the door and pulling me to him, I finally feel safe and I collapse sobbing onto his chest, my tears drenching his shirt.  _This feels like home,_ I think.  Reaching my arm up, I grip his shoulder tightly and we hold each other, crying and rocking – we both seem to have developed that habit - for a long, long time… 

A while later, we’re still sitting on the floor of the hallway of the flat, my thoughts drift to the ominous whereabouts of Sarah and I realise what she’d been up to, who the ‘we’ was that Jenson had mentioned in his earlier monologue….  And I recognise that she’s a really good friend.


	10. CHAPTER TEN - JENSEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen's rape and his life afteward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male rape triggers

#  CHAPTER TEN- JENSEN’S STORY

I thought I’d really loved her y’know?  But now I’m not so sure.  We’d known each other vaguely for years and sure, I fancied her – who didn’t?  She was absolutely stunning and I had a soft spot for brunettes - but in hindsight I can see she was actually pretty fickle and shallow, much more like her character on the TV movie we were making during the summer hiatus of _Supernatural_ than I let myself admit.  And I’d just wanted to forget recent events, immerse myself in something… _anything_ …else than deal with the recent traumatic memories circulating my mind.  _Head in the sand much, Ackles?_ I shake my head, thoughts running away again.  _Get a GRIP!_

I think she thought I was some kind of prize as well as a likely a ticket to fame, fortune and springboard for furthering her own acting career.  I’d never actually wanted the fame with all its trappings, treating it as more a necessary evil.  Whereas Danni came to life in front of the paparazzi, enjoying the red carpet events, the parties, the dressing up, the posing.  And although I’m usually much more level headed and rational, I’d let myself get carried away with the whirlwind romance we’d found ourselves starring in.  I guess once she’d set her sights on me, the game was already over and to be fair, I’d needed the distraction at a pretty vulnerable point in my life.

I’d been working on my show for about seven years before they’d introduced a new character, who proved to be very popular with the show’s fan base.  He’d seemed a great, funny guy to begin with, though we’d all thought he was a little weird at first.  Jared and I had sniggered behind our hands in the green room between takes at his strangeness.  Despite our initial reticence, the three of us had become fast friends and would inevitably find ourselves spending our leisure time in either of our trailers on the many long nights away from home just talking, joking, _drinking_ ; it was fun and we’d had a fun time.  But one evening, Jared’s wife Gen, who he’d met working on earlier seasons of the show, was close to giving birth with their first son and he’d flown back to Austin to be there.  _Cute_ I’d thought, laughing and joking with Misha.  Clinking our glasses together in premature celebration of our soon-to-be newest SPN family member, I’d drunkenly – so I’d thought - slipped off the armchair to the floor, giggling wildly, before ending up in an arm wrestle with Misha.  I recall thinking that for a scrawny guy, he sure was strong!  But before I’d realised what was happening, I was pinned beneath him, my wrestling arm twisted painfully up my back with my cheek pressed against the cold laminate floor.  I was acutely aware of an unfamiliar hardness pressing onto me as he ground against my hip, hitched heavy breathing at my ear.

Feeling uneasy I struggle, trying to buck him off, not entirely sure this isn’t a joke as he continued to hump my thigh.  “Mi---“, I began before he cuts me off, murmuring.  “Don’t fight it, Jensen”, he growls, “I _know_ you want this”.  His intentions slowly dawning, I freeze, unable to move, not believing that this apparent weakling is stronger than _me_ , Mr fucking bad-ass muscles.  My head feels fuzzy, I can’t think straight.

Still holding me down, I feel his free hand reach underneath me and palm me through my jeans.  _WTF?_ Shame seeps through me as I realise I’m actually semi-hard.  _I am not fucking enjoying this,_ my head screams at me.  But I hadn’t seen my girlfriend in weeks as she was away working on her own show so I guess my need was strong.  However, I definitely was _not_ enjoying being manhandled by a-fucking-nother GUY against my will. 

“Hey”, he purrs, trying to pacify my struggles, “relax, you know you want it, I’ve seen how you look at me and anyway, you can’t fight me, I’m in Angel of the Lord after all!”  Through the descending fuzziness, I hear him snickering and it dawns on me that I must’ve been roofied, tasting the slight chalkiness of the last slug of whisky.  Any fight I had abandons me as I bodily slump on the floor, thoughts vague. 

Hoisting up me, a strong arm circling my body, I feel myself dragged over to the double bed and chucked rather unceremoniously onto it, legs dangling over the edge.  I bounce up and down on the mattress and attempt to stand but I’m shoved face down into the softness.  _Oh shit_ , I think dimly as I feel my belt being unbuckled and my jeans yanked down.  Darkness descends and I pass out.

They find me later, curled into a ball by the bed, naked and bloody on the floor of my trailer.

 

* * * * *

TWO YEARS LATER

“Come ON, will you keep still!”  I look at my new husband, kneeling before me on the floor fiddling to fasten the bracelet as I sit on the edge of the bed.  I grin down at him, still not believing my good fortune.  My bruises and scars had all but disappeared by now, and although I _know_ that, _I can still see them_ , _everyone can, everyone knows._   I fidget, not enjoying the weight of the apparent restraint on my wrist.  He sits back on his heels in exasperation, regarding me with a concerned expression.  “We don’t have to y’know, if don’t wan’ to go?”  The traces of his slight Texan drawl cut through my thoughts and he fixes me with a piercing look from those beautiful green eyes.  _Those amazing, pleading, sincere GORGEOUS eyes, that saved me_.  Despite all this time I still have trouble looking directly at him, it’s like staring at the sun. 

 _How can I possibly_ not _go?_   This is HIS night.  It’s the ‘Silver Platter Awards’ and Jensen is up for a gong for his portrayal of Dean Winchester.  It’s a big deal.  And actually he’s up for four awards but who’s counting?  I’m so proud of him.  _This is his_ night, I repeat in my head.  But all I can think is, _they’re gonna be watching_...  I’d had a bucket load of hate mail since Jensen had left his wife Danneel, of 3 years.  For me.  For _ME!  FFS_ , _I’m_ _some_ _fucking stupid fan girl whore._ I grimace internally, remembering the events of the alley

“Hey....you still with me?  Denny?”  I’m snapped back to the moment and nod, smiling in fake cheerfulness at him.

Danni hadn’t taken it all that well and it had been _all over_ the media who’d treated me like I was the Scarlett fucking Pimpernel or something.   Memories are short in media-land; it seems they rooted for me after learning the events of my gang-rape and Jensen’s part in it, hearing of the brutal attack and his wrongful temporary incarceration, but now I was being painted as a home-wrecker, and I felt terrible about splitting up a seemingly ‘happy’ marriage, at least on the outside.  Even though I knew it wasn’t true, that Jen hadn’t been happy with Danni, the media didn’t know that, much preferring to report and speculate on the scandal of the situation.  It annoyed Jensen immensely, knowing they didn’t have the full picture.  Of that and HIS own rape, and his actions since then trying to lead a normal life.

I continued to watch him struggle to fasten my bracelet, the one my best friend had given me before I left England.  _He is absolutely perfect_ , _how did I get this lucky?_ I think.  We smile at each other, bracelet finally intact, uncertain of what each other is thinking.  “C’mon, he says, pulling me up gently.  “C’mon babe”.


	11. CHAPTER ELEVEN - RED CARPET

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen and his wife attend a red carpet award ceremony and Jensen is honest with the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape references but happy times

#  CHAPTER ELEVEN – RED CARPET

I’m absolutely dreading this red carpet event – my first – and nothing is more terrifying to me than being the centre of attention like this.  I feel bare, laid out for the slaughter, especially given my recent experiences under the media spotlight; like Jensen, I’ve always been a rather private person always preferring to live under the radar - except he’s used to this by now.  _But you’re doing this for him, he deserves this after all he’s been through_ , I think affectionately, but as the car nears the venue I begin again to fidget nervously with my bracelet again, thinking of my bestie who I know will be rooting for me, watching it on TV.  _Who else will be watching?_ I worry.  My attackers still haven’t been caught and it’s been almost a year since… _that_ …and despite my recent happiness, I feel like I’m living my life in limbo, just waiting for something _, but I don’t know what_.  Jensen grabs my hand to stop me fidgeting as we pull up outside the throng of people lining the carpets, the bulbs of the cameras popping and flashing, news vans and reporters all over the place.  I take a deep breath, and my rib aches, still not quite healed.

Squeezing my hand, he leans over.  My breath hitches as it always does with his proximity, I’ve never learned not to be that fan girl from the photo ops.  I smile to myself as whispers in my ear, “You can do this”, before giving me a shit-eating grin and opening the door on his side of the car as it grinds to a halt.   I hear the crowds go wild as Jensen, in all his gorgeous glory, the ever popular star of the show, shuffles sideways and steps out of the car.  I try not to hyperventilate, terror rising.  I hear the crowd roar in appreciation and I’m momentarily plunged into muted silence as he slams his door shut, before my door is flung open.  Soothing, steady hands help me gracefully out of the car.  _Time to put your game face on Denny_ , I whisper, steeling myself.

Smiling nervously, I blink in the glare of the flashing cameras as Jensen puts his arm protectively around my waist.  I focus on my husband, his arm, his soothing presence.  _This is about him, it’s all about him._ I look up at him as he grins and waves to the crowd which sends them into uproar, and then he looks lovingly down at me before turning us around and propelling me gently up the red carpet and toward the welcoming doors, steering me away from potential nosey journalists and muttering soothingly in my ear.  “You look beautiful, just smile, this’ll soon be over I promise, this is the worst bit”.  We pose politely with Jensen answering a few questions here and there about the upcoming new season and deflecting the more personal ones.  _He’s a pro at this._ I smile graciously, not offering an opinion and hoping that I’m coming across ok.  I’m so nervous.  Glancing around, squinting to see properly after the glare of lights and camera flashes, I momentarily think I see a face I recognise.  I freeze….

“J-Jay”, I stammer uncertainly.  He’s deep in the middle of an important interview with Channel 5 Showbiz and doesn’t hear me, his arm still protectively slung around my waist.  “Jay…” I repeat, grasping and squeezing his arm.  I feel dizzy, there’s no air.  The man in the crowd is grinning malevolently and moving slowly toward us, _toward me_ , and I feel the urge to run, I need to get away, remembering the cloying, crawling hands raking over my body….  The redness of the carpet spins against the contrast of the glaring lights, and everything goes black.

 

* * * * *

 

“Denny!  DEN!   Come on, sweetheart, SHIT!”  Through hazy greyness, a familiar though panicked voice pulls me back from the precipice and I blink my eyes open to be greeted the soothing presence of piercing green ones.  Worry is creased between his brows and I fleetingly wonder where I am before realising in a rush that I’m in a heap on the floor.  It’s bright down here, camera flashes popping left, right and centre.  “Oh!  Oh shit, no”, I moan, realising I must’ve lost it and passed out.  I lift my head to look up at my husband, anxiety clear in his beautiful eyes.  “Oh thank God”, he moans, pulling me to his chest.  I inhale deeply, savouring his familiar, comforting smell; it signifies comfort and safety.  And _love_.  He always smells so good! 

  “Jesus, are you alright?” he probes; I nod back at him uncertainly, groaning aloud, trying NOT to think of where we are.  A temporary hush descends over the assembled crowd who seem completely engrossed in the drama unfolding in front of them.  _Probably thinking of tomorrow’s headlines_ , I think sarcastically, feeling slightly horrified at the prospect.  Then I remember quite why it is I’m perched haphazardly on the ground in front of a million people.  My stomach clenches and terror grips me.  I grasp Jensen’s tie trying to ground myself, eyes desperately searching the crowd. 

“JEN!” I screech in terrified horror, my distress heightening before dropping my voice, realising I’ve shouted, too loud.  “He’s here, one of _them_ , they—they’re here…”  Jensen’s head snaps up wildly, face hardening, looking towards the direction I’d indicated.  Noticing his menacing look, someone in the crowd shouts and a scuffle breaks out towards the back; there’s yelling and screaming - people are not happy.  “Who?—WHAT?!  NO!”  Jensen stands abruptly and I slump to the floor again in surprise at the sudden movement.  For some reason the crowd have hold of a black man who’s being shoved into my eye line from the floor. 

I go pale, feeling faint again.  ”DENNY”, he says warningly, “is that….?” He shouts, but I can’t answer.  I’m staring up at the world which seems to be  moving in slow motion now and I can’t answer, can’t find my voice, I’m absolutely paralysed.  Closing my eyes and retreating into the safety of the darkness there, I feel myself pulled up from my prostrate position on the carpet and gently propelled into the building by soothing gentle hands.  The last thing I see is Jensen furiously launching himself at the guy before being pulled away, the crowd is upon the guy just before the police close in.

 

* * * * *

 

“….and the winner is…..JENSEN ACKLES!!”   The whole room erupts in cheering applause and I’m acutely aware of glare of the spotlight.  Denny has a gripping, tight hold of my hand – she’s not let go of me all evening - and I grin appreciatively and enthusiastically aware that the cameras are on us.  I look back at my wife, relieved to see happy tears streaming down her face.  After her shock earlier, I feel pride in her strength.

She’s grinning, absently fiddling with her bracelet again.  She looks ecstatic, so cute that her nose is bright red from her tears.  _She’s absolutely stunning_ , I think with affection, not for the first time I can’t believe my luck, I love her so much.  Jumping up, she flings her arms around me, “I’m so PROUD of you!” she exclaims.  I swing her round in a bear hug, before putting her back down and shaking hands with our various supporters and friends around us.  Jared, who’s sitting next to us with his wife, BEAMS back at me, and I wink back at him as he slaps me on the shoulder, standing and embracing me.  _My brother_ I think warmly, his ridiculously long, floppy hair draping across my shoulder as he hugs me. “You deserve this”, he whispers in my ear.

I know I have to step up onto the stage now and accept the award, the last of the evening, and make a speech.  I know this is _it_.  I carefully inch out of the row and into the aisle, taking what I feel are rather tentative steps towards the stage.  Stepping up and walking towards the presenter of the award, I accept the gong, hugging the presenter briefly and step up to the podium.  The microphone is rather low and I have to bend slightly.  _God knows how Jared would cope,_ I think, _he’s at least four inches taller!_ The audience quietens expectantly as I stand before them.  Emboldened by their resounding applause and congratulations, I step up to the microphone and clear my throat. 

“Hey, ah, thanks so much you guys.  This award really means such a lot to me.  You won’t know this but there was a time back there when I didn’t know how I was going to make through the day.  It’s been a helluva coupla years, as some of you know”.  Pausing, I search out the eyes of my beloved wife.  She’s easy to locate, beaming prettily and sitting looking so proud in the audience.  Muttering circulates throughout the audience, the events of this evening are media gold.

“Most of you know how I met my wife and I’m saddened as to how she’s been treated in the wider media”.  I stare directly at her, seeing her eyes widen as she realises what I’m about to do.  “None of the speculation is true by the way – at least the part about her being a marriage wrecker.  She isn’t.  Danni and I, well, we were, at best, friends but never really husband and wife, not really, not in the proper sense.  Looking back she didn’t love me and I didn’t love her, even she will agree that we married because I was in a, ah…bad place in my life, thinking I needed to prove something.  She’s an amazing person, but not for me….  You see, most people don’t know this, but Denny isn’t the only one who was raped…”  Confused muttering increases in the audience and I clear my throat apprehensively.  The room stills.  You can hear a pin drop now.

“I-I too was, um, I was…” I hesitate, clearing my throat, glancing down at the floor.  _Can I do this?_   I can’t see the audience for the lights shining back at me and it feels like I’m the only person in the world in front of a great sea of people.  _I have to do this.  For HER,_ I resolve.  I take a breath, thinking of Denny’s bravery, spurred on by the earlier arrest of one of her attackers.  Standing tall, I continue, “I too was, ah, raped, ah, SHIT.  This is so difficult!”  I scrub a hand down my face and take a deep breath.  “A few years back I was r-raped, the details aren’t relevant but at the time I felt that I had to prove to myself and to everyone that knew me that I was OK, still a man, y’know?”  The audience are hanging on to my every word now.  “Danni was there and we married, in hindsight for all the wrong reasons.  I was largely unhappy – as was she - living out the details of my attack day after day.  It was only when I met Denny when it happened to her that I began to make sense of it, _we_ made sense of it.  TOGETHER.  I’m pleased to say that I’m totally and utterly in love with this woman and she is a remarkable, kind, sincere person, the bravest strongest person I know.  The media circus surrounding her is unsubstantiated and makes me very very sad.  I’m only telling you about my experience – which is private and I’ll not publicly speak of it again - in order that you’ll _please,_ just give her a break, she’s not a marriage wrecker or any of the things you’ve painted her to be.  She’s a lovely genuine person, and I love her to death.  I owe this award, to her, my brave beautiful wife”.

Speaking directly to her now, I whisper, into the microphone and to the world, “I love you, Denny”.  The world hears, and the world accepts.


End file.
